An Intentional Mistake
by foureyedfool
Summary: After revealing the truth about what happened on Bart's rooftop in TRF, Sherlock and John are forced to deal with distrust, lies, anger, anguish, jealousy, and developing love as they go on the lam. Set two weeks after HLV. Coauthored. Slow-building Johnlock, angsty, with a happy ending. TW: drug use, language, angst, some violence, sex, mature themes. Very long, updated often.
1. Chapter 1

**Hello! This is a story/roleplay that I do with a friend of mine. We met on Omegle, so the prompt might look familiar! She writes John and Mycroft, I write Sherlock and Jim. There's a lot of heavy angst in this story, drug use, cursing, a bit of violence, mature themes, so steer clear if that sort of thing bothers you. However, I'm fully anticipating a happy ending ;) We already have over 100,000 words written so chapter updates should be fairly regular. Speaking of which, anyone who read 'Things Unsaid', unfortunately, that story has been put on hiatus. The gal I wrote with had a lot of things happen in her life all at once and just wasn't able to continue on at this time. But, maybe in the future we can continue.**

**This first chapter is all text, but the paragraphs begin in Chapter two. Enjoy and R&R!**

I've come to a realisation. SH

Okay. JW

Hello to you too, by the way. JW

/Hello/. Better? SH

Sure. JW

What's this realization? JW

You and I have not spoken for two weeks. Fourteen days. Either my phone has been tampered with, or you have not attempted to contact me by either text nor phone call. Which is it? SH

(Delayed) I'm sorry, Sherlock. There's just been a lot going on. JW

Your apology is unnecessary; I would not have been able to read or respond anyway. What have you been so busy with? SH

Well. Life. Mary, the baby... It gets... busy. JW

Wait, what do you mean you wouldn't have been able to read or respond? JW

I mean that I would not have been able to read or respond. How is that so difficult to understand? SH  
When is Mary due? SH

I can read, Sherlock. I'm asking /why/ you wouldn't have been able to. JW

And she's due in May. JW

I thought you knew that, unless you chose to delete it. JW

I might have done. With good reason. SH  
As to why I would not have been able to, I have been busy. Preoccupied. Incapacitated. SH

With what? A case? JW

You could say that. SH

How is SH  
Work? SH

Are you making small talk? JW

According to my research, it is appropriate to inquire about one's family and career after having not spoken with them for an extended period of time. SH

Work is fine, Sherlock. JW

Same thing, different day. It's all fine. JW

What's the case? JW

You saw the broadcast. You know what it centers around. SH

Right. JW

So. Any... thoughts? JW

On...? SH

I don't know. Any of it. JW

I don't know what you've been working on these past two weeks. JW

I have not been working. I have been locked in room. In Wales, I think, although I am uncertain. Interrogation rooms all look alike, however, I heard three different people speaking Welsh. SH

You're choosing /now/ to tell me you've been locked up? Jesus, Sherlock, where are you? JW

I did not have my phone before. How, pray tell, shall I have told you? SH

Jesus, /this/ is why you don't go running off on your own. You should have told me sooner that you were getting involved in something. JW

Are you alright? JW

I am fine. I'm bruised and sore and tired, but fine. SH

I did not /go/ anywhere. You remember when my plane returned to the tarmac and my brother 'had a word' with me? He was telling me that we had to talk. Of course, 'talk' was a rather generous term. SH

Meaning? JW

He sent you off to a Welsh interrogation cell? JW

Well. He came along with me. SH

He always did prioritise queen and country over family. SH

Christ. JW

So what happened? JW

Why were you there? JW

When a man that I claimed fatally shot himself-that I claimed to have /seen/ fatally shoot himself-reappears, who else would they turn to for answers? SH

Right. JW

So... they let you go. JW

[Delayed] Mm. Not as such. SH

Meaning? JW

You're still there? JW

No. I got out. I just wasn't /released/. SH

Oh, god. You broke out? JW

I might have done. SH

Sherlock... you realize how that looks. JW

I am a fugitive. SH

I was not telling them anything, anyway. I see no reason why I should have been forced to stay. SH

Where are you now? JW

I am uncertain. Still coming out of a haze. SH

Whitechapel, I think. SH

What do I do? JW

What do you SH  
What do you mean, what do you do? SH

What can I do to help? JW

What do you need me to do? I assume there was a reason you're choosing to risk contacting me. JW

There is no risk. A block has been put onto both our mobiles. SH

I would not have told you where I was, had that not been the case. SH

You could have started with all this, you know. JW

Not asking me about work... Jesus. JW

Why? It is irrelevant. You have other things on your mind, do you not? As you said, life, Mary, her baby. SH

Well this is pretty damn important too. JW

How can I help? JW

By not telling my brother anything that I have told you, preferably. Or Mary. Or anybody else. SH

Although I suppose that rather goes without saying. SH

I feel like I should be doing more. JW

I feel like I should be with you. JW

You should be with your wife. You are speaking out of an emotional outburst because of an event that occurred recently. SH

Don't. JW

Just don't. JW

Don't /what/? SH

What /else/ can I do? JW

You may speak with me. As you are doing. SH

Well playing sitting duck now that I know you're on the run isn't exactly the easiest thing to do, is it? JW

Are you sure you're going to be alright? JW

Very little in life is certain, John. SH

So then what's your next plan? JW

I have yet to concoct one. I will remain in hiding for the time being. SH

Keep in contact, so I at least know you're alright. JW

Perhaps. SH

Sherlock. JW

Mary will find out. JW

About...what? SH

That something is wrong. You said you didn't want her to know, but she'll be able to tell. And I'm pretty sure Mycroft won't hesitate to come straight to me if he suspects anything. JW

[Delayed] I am not particularly worried about Mary knowing. SH

What? Why? JW

Because SH

Because I feel she may be approaching the end of her life. SH

[Delayed] What? JW

What /exactly/ is that supposed to mean, Sherlock? JW

I do not think she will be alive much longer. SH  
I am sorry, John. SH

No, you don't get to just /say/ those thing, Sherlock. JW  
Tell me exactly what the hell that's supposed to mean. Is she in danger? JW

Yes. Yes, she is in danger. SH

I suppose it doesn't matter now. You're right. Mycroft will come to you, and he will know that you know something. Might as well tell you more. SH

Suffice it to say that, when Mary shot me, Jim became...enraged. SH  
James. SH  
Moriarty. SH  
Whatever I used to call him. SH

So Moriarty is behind this? He's targeted Mary. JW

Then she needs to be under protection. JW

It is too late for that, John. Don't be silly. SH

What do you mean it's too late? JW

Mycroft. He can help. He can do something. JW

Yes. That will look fantastic. 'Jim was furious when Sherlock's life was endangered, so please protect my wife from him'. SH

Well then what the hell do I do, Sherlock? JW

She's my wife. JW

Tell me what to do. Solve it. JW

Some cases cannot be solved. SH

Then I have to tell her. She has to protect herself. JW

What do you know? How do you even know all that? JW

About Moriarty. JW

No, John. SH

Do not tell her. SH

Allow her to live her final moments out in peace. SH

Stop acting like it's going to happen! JW

It won't. I won't let that happen. JW

No? You're going to single-handedly take down an entire criminal empire? I must admit, John, I had no idea you were capable of doing so. Colour me impressed. SH

Stop. I know you've never been in love before, but believe it or not, people go to extreme lengths to protect those people. JW

You can try acting like you even remotely care. JW

I may not be Sherlock bloody Holmes, but I can do /something./. There has to be something. JW

I /am/ protecting somebody. SH

And what does my protecting Mary have anything to do with that? JW

I don't need your blessing to do something. JW

I'm not talking about protecting myself. SH

So who, then? Me? JW

Mm. I don't believe you're in danger. Although, you will be, if you decide to try and intervene. SH  
[Delayed] Him. SH

Him? What do you mean, 'him'? JW

/Jim/. The man who is going to take your wife. /Him/. SH

[Delayed] I don't understand. JW

You're going to have to help me through this one, Sherlock, because I don't understand what that meas. JW

I suppose it best to start at the beginning. I'm sure that, by the end, you /will/ feel inclined to turn me in to Mycroft. SH

I don't believe you will be effective in this, but I've been wrong before. On rare occasions. SH

Wrong about what? Jesus, Sherlock, tell me what's going on. JW

I have known this entire time that he was alive. There was never any doubt in my mind. SH  
In fact, I ensured it. On Bart's, once Jim realised that I had won our little 'game', he attempted to shoot himself. It was not to keep me from getting a code to disarm his snipers. Mycroft had his own men poised on Jim's; the code was not necessary. Jim was going to kill himself out of shame, the shame that came from losing. SH  
I SH

I did not want that to happen. He put it rather eloquently. He said to me, 'All my life I've been searching for distractions, and you were the best distraction'. I felt the same towards him. Suicide would have been a horrid waste of a brilliant mind. SH

I tackled him. Knocked the gun from his hand. Saved his life, effectively. SH

I will pause there. I'm sure you'll have comments. SH

[Delayed] Why. /Why/ would you... do that? His /mind/? /That's/ the reason. The man who strapped a fucking bomb to my chest. /That's/ the man you decided to let live. JW

Because of his mind. JW

That is correct. SH

Oh, that's it, then? No explanation. It doesn't matter that he's almost killed us both. JW

Tried multiple times. JW

You've given him the perfect chance to continue. JW

He has saved my life three times. SH

Sorry? JW

I said, he has saved my life three times. SH

You are having a difficult time understanding things today. SH

I swear to god, I am going to kill you myself. JW

What does that even mean? When did he save your life? JW

He's tried to kill you- he almost /did/. JW

He did it the first time while I was away. I /did/ take down five of his operations. Two drug cartels, a counterfeiting operation, one child pornography production company, and a sex-and-human trafficking ring. I landed myself into a bit of trouble. He demanded that I be released, unharmed. SH

That doesn't explain why you let him live. Up on the roof, that was /before/ you were gone. JW

Perhaps I just took pity on him. SH

Look, I already told you why. He is a distraction. He is a challenge. All of our best cases were his doing. SH

... He's tried to kill /me/, Sherlock... And that's alright with you, because at least the game was challenging. JW

How do you know he won't try again. And succeed. JW

Let him live, fine. Whatever... But to protect him. JW

What would be the use of letting him live if I turned around and let him die shortly after? SH

So that's it, then? My wife and child is murdered, and you go on with your happy life because at least you'll have your little game. JW

Your wife and /her/ child. SH

Why do you keep saying that? JW

Why do you think? SH

Well it sounds as though you're implying it's not my baby. JW

Excellent conclusion, John. I'm glad you came to it yourself. Spares me having to tell you. SH

[Delayed] It's mine, Sherlock. She's only been with me. JW

You, of all people, can't know otherwise. JW

Funny that she would have ordered a prenatal paternity test, then. SH

[Delayed] What? JW

What are you talking about? JW

Have I not hurt you enough for one evening? SH

Of course. But it seems to be a pattern in our relationship, isn't it? Let's make it a tradition: what do you know? JW

I know that it is not your child. Her test results were given to me. SH

[Delayed] By who? JW

Whom, John. SH

Answer the goddamn question. JW

By him. They were given to me by him. And before you ask, yes, I made absolutely certain that he had not tampered with the results or her samples. I ran the test myself a dozen times, using different samples, different equipment. The results were consistent. SH

[Delayed] Whose the father? JW

A man by the name of Roger Baron. He is a primary schoolteacher. Boring. I do not know why she would feel the neat to be with him when she has you. SH

[No response.]

John? SH

What, Sherlock? JW

Are you all right? SH

Don't even ask me that, as if you're concerned. JW

I am. You are an exceedingly strong individual, but you /have/ just been given a lot of...unpleasant, information. SH

No shit. JW

What do you need? SH

I need you to not talk to me. JW

How will that help? SH

Because you're protecting Jim fucking Moriarty, and I still can't seem to wrap my head around that. My psychopath wife is carrying a child that's not mine and yet I still love her, and now get to watch become murdered because my other psychopath friend won't help do anything. JW

So it will help me greatly if you do. Not. Speak. JW

I have done all that I can do. I /begged/ him to let her live. The best that I could get was him waiting until your child was born. SH  
When he discovered that it was not your child, I had nothing to go on, John. No leverage. I did all that I could. SH

So you and him are old pals then, yeah? Is that how things will go from now on? JW

Hey, here's an idea. Maybe the two of /you/ can become flatmates. JW

I'm sure Mrs. Hudson wouldn't mind. Just explain to her the situation. I'm sure she'll have a great laugh and then ask how Jim likes his tea. JW

He does not care for her. He finds her nosy. Intrusive. SH

I would much prefer to live with you. SH

Oh good. Wow,Sherlock. That's really something. Thanks much. At least I'm /somebody's/ first option. JW

Fuck you. JW

Mary would have died anyway, John. You know that. All three of us did. We didn't think about it, but we /knew/. SH

She had enemies. Many of them. Did you think dyeing her hair and changing her name would keep her safe forever? SH

No. But at least that way, it wouldn't have been something related to me. JW

Let her have the child. JW

You say that like I am in control here. SH

Don't give me that shit. You are in control. He owes you his life, so you must have some influence. Some say. JW

For me. Just let her have the child. JW

At least that. JW

And then what? SH

I don't know. If you can't protect her, then at least do it for the baby. She's too far along in her pregnancy... She's nearly there. JW

Are you planning on raising it? SH

I don't know. Maybe. Maybe let the real father know somehow. It doesn't matter. JW

Please. If you're going to take away everything from me anyway, at least give me a say. JW

[Delayed]  
[IMG_4921 Sherlock's chest; he has lost weight; ribs are more pronounced and bruised, the letters 'I Own U' have been cut into his skin and scarred over]  
I have already tried. SH

[Delayed] /That's/ what you're protecting. JW

I never said it was wise. SH

I don't know what I can even say anymore. JW

Do you hate me? SH

Honestly, Sherlock, I really don't know who I hate. JW

Would it even matter if I did? JW

Yes. SH

Maybe I've just resigned to not feeling much of anything. That's what you do, isn't it? Not feel. /Choose/ not to feel. If there is nothing I can do, maybe I'll just choose not to feel as well. JW

Let's see if it's as easy as you make it seem. JW

I never said it was easy. In fact, I'm not even successful at it. SH

I always feel. Everybody does. SH

Clearly. You sure felt something for Moriarty on the roof. JW

He's right. He does own you. JW

He has allowed me to experience things that I did not believe were possible for me. SH

Like what? How a knife feels when it's being carved into your flesh? JW

Very humorous, John. SH

Why did you even contact me? I can't help you, I can't help Mary. I'm a sitting duck. JW

To see if my phone had been tampered with. SH

And because SH

I missed you, perhaps. SH

And what if Moriarty targets me again? Are you going to beg him to save my life too, or will it not be worth it because he's just so much fun to keep around? JW

Don't be ridiculous. You think I would beg him to save your lying, cheating wife and the child that isn't yours but not you yourself? SH

Well you're not the most consistent. JW

Changeable. SH

Idiotic. JW

I will not deny that. SH

[Delayed] Are you still angry? SH

Yes. JW

I won't ever not to be angry about this. JW

Just like I'm still pissed off that you were shot. JW

As am I. SH

Is this revenge for more than just Jim, then? JW

Do you want her dead? JW

No. No, of course not. SH

I will very readily take back what I said about her at your wedding, about her deserving you, but I do not want her dead. SH

So what happens now? JW

I imagine you will be contacting my brother. SH

And what good will that do? It's not going to stop anything from happening, will it. JW

No. SH

May I ask you something? SH

What? JW

It has been suggested that you are 'in love' with me. Is that true? SH

[Long delay] Is this a mind game by him? JW

I am uncertain. That is why I'm asking you. SH

[Delayed] I'm not gay. JW

I know. You could be bisexual, but I very much doubt that. However, sexuality is not always the determining factor in falling in love with somebody, is it? SH

[No initial response]  
No. JW

Does that mean that he was right, then? SH

[Long delay] I don't know. No. Those things don't matter. JW

None of this matters. JW

I suppose you're right. I had people tell me, before, that you were in love with me. Of course I never believed them. I trusted his judgment, though. SH  
People have also told me that /I/ am in love with /you/. I never believed that, either. As you say, though,it doesn't matter. SH

[Delay] What would happen if I went to Mycroft? JW

It would depend on what you told him. Nice way to change the topic, by the way. SH

Was there something else you wanted to me to say about it? JW

Because I wasn't aware that was the most important thing right now. JW

You are always important. SH

Now, what would you say to my brother? And why would you suddenly feel the need to go to him? SH

I don't know. I guess I just feel like I need to do /something/. JW

I feel useless. JW

You are not useless. I'd tell you if you were. SH

I know you would. JW

But I can't do a goddamn thing. JW

No, you cannot. SH

I find myself conflicted. Whether or not, had I known this would happen, I would have saved his life that day. SH

Well thanks. Glad I'm on your thoughts. JW

I don't understand why you did it and I probably never will. JW

But you did, and now we have to deal with the consequences. JW

We? SH

Well. I suppose you have to face the ramifications of what I did as well. SH

Mary should have come to me. But I will...attempt to refrain from blaming her. SH

I blame her just as much. JW

It doesn't matter. JW

I feel like I'm going to go off the handle some days. JW

Mm. I believe you would have done so already. SH

I know that I can be...challenging. SH

That's an understatement. JW

So what are you going to do? JW

Perhaps visit my mind palace. You? SH

Take a walk. Try not to punch a wall. JW

Kick a chair. JW

I need to cool down. Be alone. JW

Of course. SH

[Delayed] Are we in a relationship now? SH

[Delay] /What/? JW

What would possibly make you ask that? JW

People told us both that we were in love. You did not deny it, as such. SH

Two people who love each other enter into relationships, I thought. SH

I never said I was in love with you. JW

You're not, then? SH

I thought it didn't matter. JW

Are you in love with me? JW

You said that it did not matter. I was merely agreeing with you. SH

I can't talk about this right now, Sherlock. JW

Just leave me alone for a while. JW

For how long? SH

Until I'm ready to talk again. JW

You

There isn't anything you need me for right now. JW

Right. I suppose not. Take all the time you need. SH

[Delayed-Three hours later] It's getting cold. Do you have shelter? JW

I assume you're outside somewhere. JW

You are a smart man. I do, theoretically. It's getting to it that's the hard part. SH

Where are you going? JW

Jim has more bolt-holes than I have. I will stay at one of those. SH

Why do you call him that? JW

What's wrong with it? SH

It's weird. JW

You're weird. SH

It's personal, or something. JW

I don't like the way it makes him sound. JW

How does it make him sound? SH

Like you're friends or something. JW

Right. I don't know /why/ I call him that. It's his name. SH

You never used to. JW

It used to be James Moriarty. JW

Now it's 'Jim'. JW

I suppose after saving one another's lives we decided against formalities. SH

Right. That, or when someone straps a bomb to your best friend or carves words into your body, you just develop that special something. JW

Should I be expecting a wedding invitation next? JW

Very funny. I think you'd do best to steer clear of weddings for a while. SH

Why? Because I can't get them right? JW

You've only had one. Perhaps the next one will be it. If not, they say third time's the charm. SH

I won't be getting married again. JW

I don't blame you. A waste of time, marriage. An archaic celebration. SH

Works for most. JW

I'd probably end up with a kleptomaniac with a proclivity to arson. So. JW

Given my track record. JW

Or a sociopath, with a proclivity to lying. SH

Not that I'm proposing to you. SH

Well that's good. I always said I didn't want to spend the first few weeks or months of my engagement with my fugitive fiancé on the run. JW

Just complicates things. JW

I hate you, John Watson. You are one of the few people on this earth who makes me laugh sincerely. SH

You shouldn't be laughing. This couldn't be a more inappropriate time to be laughing. JW

Just like at the bloody crime scenes. JW

You shouldn't be making jokes, either. SH

I may have laughed at the crime scene, but /you/ are the one who /giggled/. SH

I didn't giggle. I /don't/ giggle. JW

I am the only person you do it around. I have noticed that. SH

No. Girls giggle. I chuckle. There is a difference. JW

Oh, /please/. You're a man and you giggle. You're unique. SH

Well you giggle too, then, and it's not because you're unique. You're just a girl. JW

Very mature, John. SH

Says the man whose come back was, '/you're/ weird'. earlier. JW

You /are/ weird. I'm obviously not a girl. SH

You keep eyeballs in the microwave, yet I'm the weird one here. JW

Stop making jokes. 'This couldn't be a more inappropriate time'. SH

Well I don't know what else I'm supposed to be doing. JW

Sleeping. SH

Because that will happen so easily. JW

Anyway, now I have the added worry of you out on the streets. JW

Christ. You are an incessant worrier. SH

I have good reason to be. JW

You don't always give me the best reassurance of your safety. JW

I've told you several times during this conversation that I am fine. SH

Fine, I won't ask anymore. When you're found dead in the Tames, I'll still just assume you've got it all under control. JW

Again with the jokes. I am in Whitechapel. Greatorex Street. SH

Fine. JW

Maybe I'll just try to go get some sleep. JW

I'm by the cafe on the corner. Behind the bins, should you be coming. SH

Why would I be coming? JW

No reason. SH

Because I'm not. JW

That is fine. SH

Goodnight. JW

Goodnight, John. SH

[Delayed] Mary isn't home. JW

I know she isn't. SH

Will you be staying there? SH

No. JW

I don't know what I'll do. JW

[Delay] If you need to, you can come here for the night. JW

Thank you, John, but your home is most likely wired. SH

Will he take you in? JW

Is that where you plan to end up? With him? JW

Take me in. I'm not a stray dog, John. SH

Really? Because you certainly seem caught at his heel. JW

You're one to talk. SH

Meaning what? JW

Meaning that you are rather attached to me as well. SH

I'm not attached. You're my friend, there's a difference. JW

You're obsessed with him. JW

Yes, I am. I cannot help it. He fascinates me. SH

God help us, then. JW

Please. You went through the same thing when you and I first met. SH

You were warned about me. It didn't stop you. You came to my defense, even after being told that I was a psychopath, that I would turn into a murderer. SH

Why? Because you were /fascinated/. SH

That's not even remotely the same thing, Sherlock. You're not /actually/ a psychopath. JW

And when we first met, you didn't try to kill me. JW

Unlike Moriarty, who strapped a bomb to me and whispered what a good pet I was. JW

Of course I didn't. I would never hurt you. SH

At least, not intentionally. SH

Then why can't you see my point? JW

Because quite frankly, I'm having trouble understanding your relationship with him. What happens between you? JW

Does it matter? SH

It does to me. JW

What, exactly, are you asking? What we do when we're together? SH

Sure. Let's start there. JW

Tea. Talk. Experiments. Research. Read. The usual. SH

Does he mutilate you before or after lunch? JW

He's done that /once/. SH

He'll do it again. JW

Not unless you decide to get married again. SH

Excuse me? JW

I don't believe he'll harm you. He knows you're too important to me. SH

Jim is SH

He is different with me, than you would think. Than I would have thought, initially. He does care for me.

Just as I care for him. And for you. SH

You have got to be fucking kidding me. JW

Goodnight, Sherlock. JW

Lovely. I talk to you and I get punished for it. SH

I don't give two shits if you think he cares for you. JW

It's not care. It's possession. JW

Goodnight, John. SH

Whatever. JW

You expect me to be perfect. SH

I've never once acted like that. JW

What I expect is for the self-proclaimed genius to grow a pair. JW

A pair of what? SH

Never mind. JW

I don't care if you're not perfect. What I care about it you using that as an excuse to do things like this. JW

You care about me using imperfection as an excuse to be imperfect. Lovely. SH

And speaking of caring, what the fuck does that even mean? You /care/ for him? What does that mean? JW

It means that I don't want any harm to come to him. SH

Oh, good. Glad we've got that cleared up. Guess I can sleep alright now. JW

/You/ are the one asking questions you know you won't like the answers to. Or perhaps I should lie some more? SH

No, trust me, you've done enough lying to last a lifetime. JW

That was my point. If you want truthful answers, do not berate me when they are given to you. SH

That's never stopped /you/ in the past. JW

And I have a right to know what's going on, and I'll damn well tell you my thoughts. If you take offence, too bad. JW

I don't. I just get annoyed. SH

Good. JW

[Delayed] I came so close to telling you everything, on the tarmac. Every single goddamn thing, from Moriarty to Mary. SH

I don't care. JW

I know. I'm not sure why I said that. SH

What do you expect from me, then? JW

Now, after everything. JW

Nothing. I expect nothing from you. SH

Actually, I expected a few things, but they have not yet come to pass. SH

I won't stick around. JW

Believe it or not, I actually do have some sense of self. JW

I had thought we'd become a bit intermingled in that. SH

What do you mean? JW

I mean that, ever since we were separated after Bart's, your voice has been in my head. Nagging me. Chastising me. Instructing me. Until I came back and was actually with you again. SH

Because you continue to do stupid things. JW

Is that all there is between you two? JW

Will you come out and directly ask what it is you want to know, please? SH

You know what I'm asking. JW

Is it sexual? JW

Yes, I knew. I fail to see how that is at all relevant. SH

I don't care, just answer the question. JW

Tell me why you want to know. SH

No, Sherlock, fucking Christ. JW

Just answer the goddamn question! JW

No? Then I shall tell you why you want to know. SH

You want to know if I have been tarnished or tainted. SH

Further than I already have been, of course. SH

Oh you think highly of yourself, don't you. JW

I'm asking because I remember exactly how obsessive and how much of a psycho he was and how he looked at you like you were, almost literally, something to eat. Seeing as how the sentiment was returned, I can only assume it's gone that direction. JW

And I'll go ahead and assume that I'm right. JW

I would, again, like to know why it matters. SH

Because I have a goddamn right to know. JW

If we were a couple, I would agree with you wholeheartedly. SH

Until then, my sexual escapades are /none/ of your concern. SH

That's a yes then. JW

You may think whatever you like. SH

So how does it work? In between the teatime and reading, does he bend you over chair? Or does he get really kinky and use whips and chains? That sounds more like good ole' Jim. JW

Is it okay if I call him Jim, too? Good friends of your friends should become acquainted. JW

You are being intentionally vulgar to get a rise out of me. SH

And God, I hope it's working. JW

Why? SH

Because I really want to piss you off. JW

Mm. I'm remarkably calm after taking heroin. Sorry to disappoint. SH

You know what's so messed up? I actually believe that you did, and that you're telling me just to piss me off and worry me. JW

Believe that I did what? SH

Take heroin? Of course I did. SH

Why? JW

Pain management. To maintain my sanity. SH

Right. Great. JW

I'm fine. SH

Of course. Just a bit of /heroin/. JW

It is very effective at slowing down my thoughts. SH

Fucking fabulous. JW

I can't talk about anything anymore. Goodnight. JW

If you could spend but a moment inside my head, you would understand. SH

I don't want to understand. JW

I don't want to know. JW

Of course not. Better to think of me as the idiotic drug addict than to think that they might actually be helpful. SH

Fine. Take your drugs. Think of a plan. Solve whatever needs to be solved. JW

Nothing needs to be solved. SH

I can no longer go to Scotland Yard for cases. I suspect it will be only a matter of time before my brother and the rest of the government issues a warrant for my arrest, which prevents me from taking private cases. SH

Don't worry. I'm sure Jim's got your back. JW

He wouldn't let his favorite toy get played with by anyone else. JW

No, he would not. SH

I do not think he considers me his favourite toy, though. SH

But he owns you all the same. JW

Forget it. There is literally not a single thing I can say to convince you. JW

It was my idea. SH

What was your idea? JW

What I showed you. The 'carving', as you put it. SH

Lovely. Can't wait to hear this one. JW

There is nothing to hear. He asked what he'd get in exchange from letting Mary live until the child was born. I had nothing to offer him that he didn't already have. SH

Except that, of course. SH

[Delayed] /Why/ are you doing this to me? JW

What? What am I doing to you? SH

[Delayed] I don't want you going him. JW

I have no intention of leaving this place right now. That does not answer my question. SH

You're hurting me. By hurting yourself. JW

I am /fine/. SH

[Delayed] I just realised that I have an odd desire. SH

What? JW

I wish to hold you. SH

That is a common means of comforting someone, is it not? SH

[Delayed] Yes. It is. JW

I actually wish I had someone to hold me. JW

I suppose I'm the best you can do right now. SH

You can't even come inside my fucking house, apparently. JW

Or outside it. Mycroft will have set up his own cameras. Maybe. Maybe not, yet. He will once he realises that the CCTV has been tampered with. SH

It will not take him long. SH

I'm a bit surprised he hasn't broken down my door yet. He's not an idiot. JW

Jim is probably occupying his attention. SH

Will I even get to see you again? JW

I /did/ tell you where I am. SH

Right. Behind some bins on the corner of the street. Jesus. JW

It is an effective hiding place. SH

[Delayed] Can I bring you anything? JW

Just you, please. SH

[Delayed] I'll be a minute.

Perhaps some cologne? SH

How about some perfume instead. JW

Perfume? SH

[Delayed] A joke? SH

A joke. JW


	2. Chapter 2

**As promised, here's the paragraphs. Every chapter from here-on out will be paragraphs, I believe. As a disclaimer, I still don't own Sherlock/Sherlock Holmes/etc, never have and never will.**

With remarkably still hands, John pocketed his phone before slowly standing. His jacket hadn't been removed from when he had gotten home from his earlier walk, which now felt like it had been hours ago, but he zipped it up tighter, remembering the chilled air.

It didn't take him long to find Sherlock. After casting a quick glance around the empty street-the only joy of living in a quiet, suburban area-he stalked towards the row of bins, slightly obscured by a telephone booth.

The blanket clutched in his hand was the first thing to make contact, and he held it out towards the lump of black coat.

"Here," he greeted. "In case you get cold."

Sherlock, at first, didn't acknowledge John. He had to think for a moment. Was he actually there? He /had/ asked him to come, hadn't he? And John had...agreed? Well, apparently so. Such was the affect of heroin on his mind. It muddled his thoughts and made them perfectly easy to follow. Easy to forget about and relax Sherlock was freezing, and the blanket was welcomed even though he would never admit t that. He was wearing only a dark hoodie over a t-shirt, a pair of jeans and boxers, and trainers. He hadn't showered or brushed his teeth in two weeks, and the smell was probably more than obvious. Hence why he had asked for cologne. "Thank you, John," he murmured, and gripped the blanket loosely in his hand. The heroin made it feel as if it were made of lead, and it promptly fell onto the ground. Well. At least he /had/ it.

John watched the blanket fall limply to the wet, dirty pavement and he sighed. Kneeling down, he picked it up and tried offering it again, but when he realized that Sherlock's hands were slightly trembling, he opened the blanket and folded it around his shoulders, pulling tightly.

"God, you look awful," he murmured. "And you smell even worse."

He paused, watching him. He looked an absolute train wreck. His hair was greasy and matted and his skin looked ashen. While John couldn't tell through the clothes, the hollowness of his cheeks gave every indication that the man was malnourished.

"You need food," he said. "And water..."

Sherlock chuckled a little at John's comments, particularly the initial two. Yes, he /did/ look awful. And yes, he smelled absolutely horrendous. Jim had said the same things earlier. Because of course Jim had helped him escape from Wales. Sherlock wouldn't have been able to do so on his own. He had been chained to the wall, with his arms bound on either side of him. "I'm fine," he told John, although he clearly wasn't. The smallest hint of a smile remained on his face, even though John was more than likely going to curse it off him. 'Goddammit Sherlock, when you say you're fine, you're supposed to mean that you're /fine/; this isn't fine!' He could imagine it already. Using as much of his strength as he could muster-there wasn't much, but it would be enough-Sherlock lifted his hand and extended it towards John. He gripped the man's jacket and pulled him closer, then let his arm snake around John's back. Sherlock leaned forward until his forehead was resting against John's shoulder. This wasn't the ideal scenario he'd had in mind for holding John, but he would make do with it for now. "I know I look a fright. And smell one, too. That's why I asked for the cologne."

"God, you're right... Should I bring out the hose for a spray down?" John chucked, but it was dry, and let Sherlock pull him in, much to his initial reluctance. "I'm still pissed off at you," he murmured, dropping fully to both knees and taking a hold of the front of Sherlock's hoodie. "I'm /really/ pissed off at you..."

His grip tightened and he carded one hand through Sherlock's hair. He let himself enjoy the moment, allowing himself to just be held, to be told it was okay, even though Sherlock wasn't saying that at all and probably wouldn't. Because none of this was okay. /None/ of it. "You're just an idiot."

Despite his initial disgust at John touching his hair-it was greasy as hell; he knew that-Sherlock soon found himself leaning his head into the touch. He hummed when John called him an idiot, and the smile on his lips quirked slightly higher upwards. "And you are here. Smelling an idiot. Touching an idiot's filthy hair. Bringing a blanket to an idiot. What does that make you?" One of his eyebrows lifted, even though John couldn't see it. It was a playful tease, lacking all the bite that Sherlock's jabs usually had. John was still pissed off at him, he'd said. That wasn't surprising. He would probably always hold a certain degree of resentment about this. After swallowing, Sherlock's eyes drifted shut. "I can...appreciate, that I might have made a mistake."

John said nothing, mostly because he was a bit uncertain that his voice wouldn't come across as biting and hurtful.  
It was so much easier on the phone. There, John could be as angry and as cutting and hurtful as he wanted, because he didn't have to look at Sherlock. Didn't have to see him like this. But now, here, he couldn't deny that some of that anger melted away and was being replaced with what John feared: Longing. Sorrow. And a strong, sudden surge of fierce protectiveness.

"It's a start," he finally mumbled, pulling away slightly, but keeping a firm grasp on his front. He swallowed hard and learned back in again, resting his head alongside Sherlock's. "Because this was a big fucking mistake. Probably your worst."

Sherlock's tongue slid across his lips to wet them. He hadn't realised how dry they were, a mixture of the cold, nerves (he cursed himself for admitting to that) and dehydration. It was so strange to think that John's hands were clutching the fabric of his clothes just above where the 'I Own U' had been cut into his chest. It would be there for the rest of his life, skin grafts aside. "I know," Sherlock said, and he considered nodding before deciding it wasn't worth the effort. He didn't know what he would do if he could go back in time and relive the 'showdown' on Bart's.

After a little while of silence, Sherlock spoke again. "I am sorry about your family, John. Truly." Mary and the child that wasn't his. Sherlock had tried. He /had/ tried. It may have ultimately been his fault for letting Jim live, but that didn't mean that he didn't feel guilty for it.

John breathed out shakily.

Mary not coming home tonight was all the information he needed to know that what Sherlock had predicted had come to pass. Mary was gone.

And while John was hurt, while he felt like a coldness had washed through him, and like another little piece of him had died... somehow, he had always been expecting this. He had just known it would happen.

He simply nodded, not trusting himself to speak, and finally, he pulled away.

His eyes raked over Sherlock's form and he narrowed his eyes to the ground.

"So how does it work?" he asked him. "Will you be gone long this time?"

Sherlock's brow furrowed. Gone long? What was John talking about...oh. Mycroft. The government. John must have thought that Sherlock planned to have Jim take him away, somewhere. Or something. Christ, he couldn't think. Not while he was this high. Well he /could/ think...obviously...he was doing so now...but he couldn't /think/ about...thinking? "I would like to avoid going anywhere if I can help it," he answered. "The idea of being at my brother's mercy once more..." Sherlock trailed off, exhaling a sigh against John's neck. "I do not care for it."

John shook his head against the matted down curls.

"That's not what I mean," he murmured, pulling back. "I assume you're going to..." he trailed off. God, when had he become such a coward? He couldn't even bring himself to say the man's /name/ out loud. And that wasn't John. That wasn't the soldier he was.

He took a deep breath.

"I don't imagine I'll get to see you regardless... Because of him. Am I right?"

Ah. So it was /Jim/ that John was thinking of, not Mycroft. /Stupid. You should have known that, high or not/. "I don't know, John." Best to be honest, now. More or less. Maybe. Or maybe this was all one big, huge mistake. Maybe getting in touch with John from the beginning had been. He could have let John think that Mary's death was an accident, or simply a vendetta of an old enemy. Instead, he'd had to push himself back into John's life. Rude. "I cannot anticipate how he will..." Sherlock shrugged his right shoulder, just a little bit, more of a roll. "He did not stop us from seeing each other other for the past two years. I am uncertain if he will start now."

"Something tells me the stakes are a little higher now," he mumbled, running a hand through his hair. He paused, suddenly unsure what to say. It was like that goddamn tarmac all over again-John staring at Sherlock like an idiot, as all words and thoughts seemed to conveniently float out of his mind. Because what was he supposed to say to that? Well this was fun, but it's over now, so nice to have met you? Have fun with your new... whatever Jim was?

"I don't really know what I'm supposed to do," he admitted, sitting back on his heels. "What to do now... God knows you won't let me do anything."

Sherlock had an idea of what they could do now. It was, perhaps, uncharacteristic of him, but wasn't all of this? Helping a criminal. /Caring/ for said criminal. Admitting to his best friend that he cared for him, too. Sherlock still didn't know what way he meant that, but he did know it was true. "You never told me," Sherlock began, slowly, considering each of his words before he spoke them, "if you were...in love with me, or not." Because that would make a difference in what he was going to suggest. He might make a right fool of himself in the process, but at least he could say that he had tried.

John wasn't sure if he heard Sherlock correctly or not, initially, because Sherlock Holmes didn't /say/ things like that... He didn't /feel/ things like that... At least, not in any way John had ever seen. And having the detective lay them out to John so carefully, so plainly, was foreign to John's ears.

He looked up at him slowly, heart beginning to pulse loudly through his body, much like it had when Sherlock had first broached the topic.

"I thought it didn't matter..." he said quietly, suddenly unable to make eye contact. And why? Why couldn't he look at him? He could /always/ look at Sherlock.

John had tried for so long to fight it down. To not let those emotions creep up, but lately, it seemed, he was having a bit harder of a time at succeeding. Especially when Sherlock looked at him like that.

Again, Sherlock wet his lips. Why was John making this so difficult? Was it intentional? Or was he getting, as they say, 'cold feet'?

"Perhaps it doesn't matter," Sherlock said, because indifference was his first defense mechanism regardless of the situation. He knew that that wasn't the correct way to react, though. Not now. Sherlock moved his hand to John's face and let his long, pale fingers lightly grip his chin, pulling the doctor to look at him. "I was proposing that we..." How to say this delicately.../was/ there a way to say it delicately? "That we make the most of the time we have." Perhaps it would only be an experiment for Sherlock. Perhaps it would only be attempting to comfort John, attempting to make up for some of the hurt that he had caused. Either way, it was worth a try.

When Sherlock took hold of John's chin and guided his face to his own, John's breath caught in his throat and, for just a moment, thought that he were about to kiss him.

And the thought, paired with Sherlock's gaze roaming his face, sent a shiver through his entire body and his face suddenly heat up, pulse racing.

/Make the most of the time we have.../

John swallowed, subconsciously running his tongue across his lower lip.

"Oh," he breathed stupidly.

He didn't dare move, but he felt something inside of him give, just a little bit, and he lowered his gaze to Sherlock's mouth before flickering back up to his eyes.

Because John did want to make the most of this time he had with Sherlock. So often he had let this man slip away without John acting on what he felt... And here, Sherlock was finally providing that easy way out.

John nodded, just slightly.

Asking John, in comparison, seemed to be the easy part. Now, Sherlock was actually going to have to follow through. Despite what John thought about Jim and himself having sex, he still seemed perfectly willing to go along with Sherlock's idea. What /was/ Sherlock's idea? He was vaguely familiar with the types of sex...oral, anal, vaginal (not an option here, obviously), and manual stimulation. But what was he offering? What was John /wanting/? Sherlock supposed that it didn't matter at that exact moment, because there was one thing that needed to be done first. John couldn't possibly be interested in doing anything before. "I need to get cleaned up," he told his doctor. "I suspect you want to hold off until then." After swallowing thickly, Sherlock nodded towards the entrance to the alleyway and tilted his head to the left to indicate which direction they should go in. "There's a bolt-hole a few blocks away. It's absolute shite, but it should be enough." Enough for...whatever it was that they were doing. It had a shower and a bed, anyway.

"Right," John murmured, a little absently as he glanced at the alleyway. It wasn't as though he were feeling apprehensive, per say, but a bit of uneasiness seemed to settle over him. Strangely enough, though, it wasn't what Sherlock was suggesting that was getting to him, but the sheer finality of it. Like he was about to walk to his own doom.

Sherlock's flare for the dramatics must have been rubbing off on him.

He let go of Sherlock and stood, a bit shakily-too much pressure on his knees from kneeling-and reached down to offer a hand to the other.

"Do you need anything from inside?" he asked stupidly. "A change of clothes, or... toothbrush."

Sherlock, despite his state, smirked a little. John had /asked/ if he'd needed anything, but the suggestions had come out to be more of a statement. John was telling him what he needed. He took John's hand and pulled himself up with no small amount of effort. He pressed one hand against the wall to steady himself, but the look on his face-his tired, sallow face-was no less stoic or proud than it had ever been. He had to /try/ and maintain /some/ dignity, after all. "I think it is more accurate to say that /you/ wish for me to have those items," Sherlock said, but he nodded. Well. Tried to nod. When his head went foreword, it didn't come back up. /Get your head up, man!/ He did. He lifted it with a slight grimace, but it turned into a fake smile when he locked eyes with John. "Perhaps some food." Just for John. Sherlock wasn't hungry.

To say that John was worried was an understatement. But more than that, there was that feeling of anger that was beginning to seeth in his bood again the more he looked at the detective. He was malnourished, sure. Weak. Beaten. Bruised and-was that dried blood? Probably.

But he was /high/.

And /that/was by choice.

He nodded curtly and turned, making his way back to the house on his own to retrieve the items.

He made quick about it, shoving the few things into a small sack-toilitries, clothes, etc. The change of clothes weren't exactly his size, but at least it was better than what he currently had donned.

He paused when he caught sight of the first-aid kit. Would that look suspicious to Mycroft if he saw him leaving the flat with that? With /any/ of this? Sherlock said his house was probably bugged, after all...

But he couldn't waste time mulling it over. He grabbed it, along with everything else, and headed back out towards the alleyway.

When John returned, Sherlock almost said a prayer of thanks. /Almost/. It wasn't his fault for being inclined to speak to a God that was nothing more than a figment of the imagination of-as he'd said at John's wedding-the family idiot. Or had he said the village idiot? He couldn't remember now; he was too high to think that far back. There had been one pressing thing on Sherlock's mind while John was gone, and that was what Jim would think of all of this. What he would think of Sherlock virtually offering himself to John, offering to give John one final fling before they were torn apart from each other. It would happen eventually. The more John associated with him, the more he was going to be punished. Mycroft wasn't cruel-Sherlock hated to admit that, but it /was/ true-but he didn't particularly care for John. He liked that Sherlock had a friend, supposedly, but he didn't actually /care/. He wouldn't go out of his way to keep John out of trouble. Sherlock shivered a bit as a cold chill passed through his body, and he began to lead the way to Jim's hideaway. "It's not fair."

John was, for the most part, silent next to him.

It felt a bit like he had stepped out of his own body, his legs taking control and leading him, but his mind somewhere else. Why wasn't he more anxious? Why wasn't he having some sort of crisis? John may not be a genius like the detective, but he wasn't an idiot, either. What Sherlock had implied was laid out almost as plain as day, and John hadn't even put up a fight. Was it because he knew that this was probably it? He supposed he had rather come to terms with being torn away from this man. It certainly wasn't the first time... Perhaps he was just resigned to acceptance.

And if that wasn't about the saddest thing ever...

He was broken out of his thoughts at Sherlock's words. He glanced sideways at him, but just as quickly returned his gaze forward.

"No," he agreed. "But you've never really played fair. It only fits that nobody else will, either."

"I was not talking about me, John," Sherlock informed him as they walked. "You are the only one who is not getting exactly what they deserve. You and Mary's child. And Jim, I suppose. Although he will, I am sure, eventually be punished for what he's done." Sherlock shrugged and released an exaggerated sigh. "Just not by me." Ha. Punished. Given John's assumption that Jim was into sexual encounters involving whips and chains...Jesus. Sherlock grimaced as he thought of what /John/ must have thought he and Jim had done. Absolutely ridiculous, his ideas. It only took them a few minutes to arrive at the flat. It looked dingy from the outside-and it was on the inside, too-but there was still a code that needed to be entered to gain access. Sixteen digits. Sherlock entered it, and his fingers moved slowly over the keypad, whereas they were usually so fast that they blurred together. When the lock was disarmed, he pressed on the other numbers, just to keep them loose, to keep fingerprints on them. He'd used stiffer, untouched buttons more than enough times to learn how easy of an indicator they could be to gain access to places people shouldn't be in. The flat was cold. There was a light on an end table and Sherlock flipped it on before he pulled off his hoodie. He was sick of wearing the damn thing. He turned and faced John, but looked anywhere besides directly at him. He didn't know how to proceed with what they were, supposedly, going to do.

John followed behind Sherlock slowly, looking around the flat as though he were a dog entering unknown territory; another alpha's domain.

Moriarty's domain.

The door clicked behind them finitely, locks and bolts no doubt barring entrance for another person. John set the sack down on the table and fisted his hands together.

So. Now what, indeed.

It was much easier to meet Sherlock's eye when the detective wouldn't look at him. He was braver that way.

"You should eat," he said. "Drink some water... then go get cleaned up. I'd like to take a look at your injuries."

He couldn't see the supposed carving in Sherlock's chest, as under the hoodie had been a thin, white t-shirt, but he could see plenty of other cuts-some that had taken on a nasty yellow color, no doubt riddled with infection.

Sherlock nodded. As he had already decided, he did not wish to eat. He wasn't hungry. His transport was hungry-famished, really-but /he/ wasn't. Nevertheless, he checked the kitchen cabinets. Jim had said he'd stocked it...biscuits. Muesli. Bread, jam, tea, canned meats. Everything was cheap, but that was because it had to fit in with the overall feel of the bedsit. Sherlock opened a packet of biscuits and chewed slowly on one as he turned the kettle on to boil. The wafer tasted bad. His mouth was dry and he simply wasn't in the mood for it. Sherlock poured two cups of tea when the water was done boiling and held the glass with both hands just to warm them up. He ate another biscuit, then a third-just to appease John-before going into the bathroom and stripping down. He only took one article of clothing that John had brought, and that was a pair of boxershorts. If he was going to be examined from head to toe and then treated, there was no use in getting dressed. It took him a long while to bathe, but half an hour later he was out of the shower and had Jim's robe on, shut around his body so that the letters carved into his chest couldn't be seen. He sat down on the couch and drummed his fingers on the arm as he waited for the doctor.

The flat's only heating device was a dingy little heater in the corner of the room, but thankfully, the room was rather small, and it had finally begun to heat up a little by the time Sherlock had returned. He pulled off his own jacket and rolled up his sleeves as he pulled a stool over and took a seat directly in front of Sherlock, who, much to John's annoyance, looked more bored than anything else.

He wordlessly opened up the first-aid and fished out a few items-antiseptics, cleaning pads, stitching supplies.

He began with Sherlock's hands and arms, working his way up slowly, cleaning the smaller lacerations until he reached his face. He had to stand in order to get a better view from the light and began dabbing away at the cut on his eyebrow.

"You need stitches," he murmured. "Probably a tetanus shot, too, but lucky for you, I don't have that with me."

He cupped his chin and tilted his head to the side so he could get a better look before reaching behind him to grab the thread and needle.

"Don't move."

"Wouldn't dream of it, John," Sherlock said. His voice was gravelly. That was from the cocaine he'd used on and off-snorting it irritated his mucous membranes and sinuses-but also because he had talked so little the past two weeks. He'd had nothing to say. Jim and John, those were the only two people he'd wanted to talk to. Sherlock shut his eyes and allowed his injuries to be treated. The needle piercing his skin was by no means an enjoyable experience, but it was much more tolerable than the knife to his chest had been. Sherlock chuckled a little as John worked. "Do you rememeber the first year we lived together? That winter, you told me twelve times that I needed a flu shot. I told you I was fine. You were so focused on your patients and me getting one that you forgot to get one yourself. You didn't leave your bed for three days."

Johns mouth quirked upwards just slightly as he worked, standing in between Sherlock's legs to gain better access.

"Didn't make you any less of annoying dick," he murmured, placing the end of the needle in his teeth as he threaded new string-the cut was a bit deeper than John's initial glance. "You weren't even helpful-you just came to my room everyday and barged in, demanding to know if I was over it yet. I could really feel the care."

He began working again, holding on hand on top of Sherlock's damp head to keep him steady, or move him where he needed to move. "I also remember that same winter you slipped on a patch of ice while walking up the steps. Probably the first time I've ever seen you not be graceful."

Sherlock snorted in amusement at the memory. He'd hoped that John would have forgotten. He seemed to forget everything of import, anyway. "You're a /doctor/," Sherlock huffed. "You didn't need my help. And I slipped on that ice while chasing Anthony Larkin. It was worth not looking, as you say, graceful. I'm /not/ graceful. I'm just in control of my body. If you had-" Sherlock paused when a very familiar sound could be heard from his hoodie pocket. The chorus of 'Stayin' Alive'. Jim had thought it would be funny-and Sherlock did too, although he found it just as annoying as he did amusing-to program his personalised ringtone on Sherlock's phone with something soppingly sentimental. ' Sherlock swallowed thickly. "I-" he began, but cleared his voice instantly to try and cover up the fact that his voice came out soft, hesitant. He tried again. "I need to get that."

John's fingers stilled against Sherlock as soon as the phone began ringing. He didn't need being told who it was, and he knew even before Sherlock said he needed to answer it who was on the other line.

He felt himself stop breathing, and when Sherlock moved to make for the phone, John reached for the pair of scissors and cut the thread of his stitches before turning away and tossing them-a bit forcefully-into the box.

He whirled back around and watched Sherlock move for the hoodde, sitting in a lump on the table.

Sherlock moved to his phone a bit slower than he would have liked, but he slid his thumb across the screen and was saying Jim's name as he brought it up to his ear. "Jim." It was good just to hear from him again. "Yes. Yes, I know. I-" Sherlock's eyes lifted to John before quickly leaving and lowering to the ground. "With me. I did, yes. No. I'm /fine/." Sherlock rolled his eyes and frowned. "Jim, I'm /fine/. No, I don't need-I don't-John is doing it. Yes. I'm /fine/. Christ, neither you nor him will believe me when I say that! ...All right. Understood. Goodbye." Sherlock hung up the phone and turned the volume down. John wasn't happy, clearly. "Just wanted to check in," he told the doctor. "He saw someone came in...just wanted to make sure it was me. Make sure that I got in okay." Sherlock gestured towards his brow. "Were you, um-done?"

John wasn't looking at Sherlock when he spoke. His gaze was fixed in a hard stare on the phone in Sherlock's hand, as though the thing itself had personally offended him somehow. John was half tempted to smash it against the wall.

"Just checking in," he finally said plainly. "Making sure that you /got in/ okay..." He forced out a dry bark of a laugh and carded his hand through his own hair. "What did he say?" he demanded suddenly, crossing his arms firmly. "What does he want?"

Sherlock crossed the room to stand beside John. He was annoyed with John, John was annoyed with him. Sherlock reached out and put a finger over John's lips to silence him. Or, at least, stun him into silence. "He wanted to tell me that...well, that that /thing/ I told you about earlier was done. He wanted to make sure you were still with me. He offered to have me sent to a hospital to get fixed up. Insisted on it. I told him that you were doing it." Sherlock shrugged. "That's it. Nothing spectacular."

If Sherlock were trying to calm John down somehow, it /really/ wasn't working. If anything, the more he spoke, the more John had an urge to have Sherlock's head join his phone against the wall. He batted the other man's hand away from him, as if it were an annoying fly and he glared.

John didn't like that Moriarty was checking up. Making sure he was 'okay'. It wasn't as though he actually /cared/. Not in the typical sense, anyway. He just didn't want his new toy getting messed up, unless he were the one doing it.

And more than that, there was a bit of a burning anger in him at the fact that he would even speak about John to Sherlock. As if him killing off his wife was no big deal-just a quick update.

He didn't really know what to say, and the more he stared at Sherlock, the angrier he was getting. He whirled around and forcefully began packing up the first aid kit before slamming it shut.

"Well then maybe you should," he bit out. "Go to a hospital. Get fixed up properly so he can have a clean slate to work off of."

Sherlock's brow furrowed. He cocked his head as he stared at John, trying to put the pieces of the puzzle that was John Watson together. He'd thought that John would take comfort in knowing that Jim had asked about his well-being. Apparently he'd been incorrect. To put it mildly. "I don't need to go to a hospital," he said in a low voice, and his tone carried the same growling annoyance that it had held with Jim. "I'm /fine/. You're here, aren't you? Why the hell would I need a hospital when I have /my/ doctor here with me?" Why was this so hard for people to grasp? Sherlock glanced at John, then at the door, then back at John. "You're angry now. Does this mean you'll be leaving?"

Of course. Sherlock knew how John behaved when he got angry. What he did by default-walk out. John glared at him, fists clenching. He /should/ go, honestly. Walk out of this dingy little flat, out of this little hell hole and not look back. Sherlock wanted to play like this, then fine. Let him. Let them both have each other, have their little game. Why should John care? After all, he was /clearly/ being the unreasonable one here. He was obviously /unjustly/ angry.

And what pissed him off most was that Sherlock just /wasn't getting it/. He had the audacity to stand there looking genuinely confused as to why John were acting up.

He wanted to hit him. Hard.

"You're a fucking idiot," was his only response, and he whirled back around for his jacket."

"I think," Sherlock said, as he let loose the robe-John was leaving? Really? Well he hadn't /actually/ thought that he would; after all, why would he come here, only to turn around and leave almost immediately?-and stood in only his-well, John's-boxer shorts, "That that has already been established." Sherlock stepped closer to John, still looking at him quizzically as he tried to figure out what he was doing, what John wanted him to do. Sex was hardly his go-to solution. Not that it even /was/ a solution. It was a waste of time, he thought. Not worth his, certainly. And John had never even said if he wanted it. But maybe Sherlock being willing to give it would prove to John that he was sorry for doing what he'd done and that his friendship was valuable? When he was in front of the other man, Sherlock wet his lips and stared down at John's. Different from Jim's, certainly. Should he do it first? Would John do it first? Maybe John would just hit him, and then none of this would matter anyway.

When Sherlock moved in front of John, the doctor furrowed his eyebrows and took a step back. He didn't like it when Sherlock did that, which was, admittedly, often. He would step into John's personal space as if he bloody well belonged there.

In turn, John glared right back at him.

"/Sherlock/," he warned, fists clenching.

In retrospect, it was probably a bad idea coming here. John knew what was expected, what Sherlock had offered him. He wasn't sure if it were because Sherlock wanted it, or if he just thought John did, but he supposed that it didn't matter. What would it prove? Nothing, really. It would-whatever it was-would end, and that would be it. It wouldn't /change/ anything.

"Don't," he murmured.

"Don't /what/?" At least if he could know what John thought was going to happen, he could know what John wanted. Or didn't want. Or...bloody hell, he didn't know what he was doing. He didn't /know/. This wasn't his area, sex. Comforting. /Friendship/. How many people offered to have sex with their friends whom they thought to be in love with them strictly to keep the friendship going? "I never slept with Jim." Would that help, if John knew? Maybe. Maybe not. "You thought we had sex, but we didn't. I have...never." Way to go, broadcasting your naivete, your complete lack of knowledge here. At least now he won't be surprised when you're /terrible/.

John blinked slowly before lowering his head and raking his hands across his face. Well. There's one question answered.

"I don't care," John managed out in a disbelieving breath. "If you've fucked him or not. That's not the /point/... And you know what? There really /isn't/ a point. Because I don't even know why you're-I mean, why are we even... here. What difference does this make? Does /any/ of this make? I know what you're asking from me, but I don't know /why/, or why /this/."

His fists clenched at his sides.

"It would make things worse."

Sherlock pressed his tongue against the inside of his cheek. Fantastic. John was psychoanalysing this. Of all bloody things to analyse, of all things to question. Jesus. "You certainly cared over text," Sherlock grumbled. "And perhaps it doesn't make a difference. I was told that you were in love with me. I was attempting to show you what I am willing to do to maintain your friendship. This was my attempt at apologising to you for what I've done and not done over our years of association." He shrugged and turned away, walking back over to where he'd dropped his robe, bending down so that he could pick it up and slip it back on. "But perhaps you're right. It does not make a difference, and there is no point." Sherlock sat down on the couch and leaned against the arm of it, then cradled his head in his hand. At least he could sleep.

John glared at Sherlock as he walked away. "So /that/'s how you apologize? Offer me a good shag on the same night that my wife was murdered?" he barked out a laugh. "Well. /Thank you/, Sherlock. That means the /world/ of difference. I've completely changed my mind. C'mon, let's get to it then."

He marched over to stand in front of him, and when Sherlock didn't pick his head up from his hands, John did the honor of knocking it down for him.

"C'mon, then, Sherlock. Let's do it. Your way. Always your way."

Well that didn't make sense. John was telling Sherlock to do it-whatever /it/ was; he still wasn't sure-but he clearly didn't /want/ it. Then again, Sherlock didn't know if he did, either. He was curious. He wanted it to make John happy. But, that obviously wasn't going to happen, so...what was the point? Sherlock looked up at John and shook his head. "I was only trying to help." He hadn't even considered that John wouldn't be in the mood because of Mary's abduction. Not death; he'd lied when he said that Jim was going to kill her. But he did it /for/ John. Knowing that his wife was going to be tortured-what good would knowing that do him? Really, /what/ good?

John stared at Sherlock before turning away. He knew he wasn't making sense, was sending mixed signals... but /God/ if he wasn't tired. Physically. Emotionally. He didn't even know what to think or do anymore.

And truthfully, Mary's death was just icing on the cake, really. The real problem, the real bulk of it was Sherlock. Sherlock and Jim Moriarty.

He slumped down on the other end of the couch and sighed heavily, putting his head in his hands.

"Just forget it," he said. "You need sleep. /That's/ what you need."

Sherlock felt foolish. Very much so. He stared at John as the doctor sat down on the couch, leaving a cushion of space in between them. John hadn't even finished cleaning his wounds. He wasn't going to do that. He wasn't wanting to do anything intimate. He was clearly angry, and upset. So why was he still here? "You should go," Sherlock told him. "Go to..." Where? Baker Street? His own flat? A hotel? None of those sounded good. "You should just go." At least then Sherlock wouldn't have to stay confused. He could delete this. All of it. He could take another dose of heroin and pretend like nothing else existed. If Jim came by, he wouldn't have to worry about who was going to kill who. This, John being here...it wasn't good. Not anymore.

John lifted his head from his hands and looked over at Sherlock.

For all of his anger, for all his threats to leave... he knew he wasn't going to. Not really. He wasn't about to leave Sherlock like this, leave him at the mercy of someone-Moriarty-to come find him.

There was silence between them and he stared for a long time, thinking too many thoughts, before he finally stood. Wordlessly, he pulled the stool back over in front of Sherlock and sat. He continued to say nothing as he opened the kit once more.

When he dabbed on a bit of antiseptic to a pad, he met Sherlock's curious gaze and raised an eyebrow.

"Sit up for me, please."

Sherlock sighed, softly, but he /did/ sit up. He was remarkably obedient to John. Most of the time. Ha, if he wasn't obedient, he was damning the world and destroying John's life, it seemed. Quite a condition. Certainly not one that he should be laughing about, even if it was only internally. Whoops. He let the robe fall off his shoulders again. John had already done his arms; his legs were bruised but relatively uninjured. It was his chest and back and stomach that remained. "Mycroft /will/ ask you about me," Sherlock told him. "What will you do?"

John didn't meet Sherlock's eyes as he spoke, keeping his attention focused on the job at hand. He had about finished everything else-save for the part of Sherlock he were still covering-and he eventually moved from the stool to get down on his knees, as it gave him easier access.

"I don't know," he admitted, preparing another pad. "He'll know the truth, no matter what I tell him. He'll see right through me-always does. It's not like I can really offer you any protection," he admitted quietly.

He paused before motioning with his hand for Sherlock to lay down.

"Open the robe," he instructed carefully.

"Of course /you/ can't," Sherlock said, leaning back on the couch but propping his back up on the arm of it. He pulled the robe open open, revealing his chest and the scars that had been formed on it. "This is humiliating." It /was/ humiliating. John knew where the scars had come from. He didn't care, seemingly, that Sherlock had taken them in an attempt to save what he'd thought what John's child. No, that little detail was swept under the rug, replaced with another excuse for John to get mad.

John ignored both comments-or rather, words seemed to fail him-when the robe fell open and pushed aside. There is was. Red, angry, and permanent. The picture didn't do it justice. Here, under the harsh light of the lamp, every jagged line in his skin looked as though it were placed there with purpose.

They were angry lines, too. Vicious lines. They screamed the same message that they actually spelled out.

He was owned.

John had learned long ago not to let his emotions interfere with his work. He was, before anything, a soldier and a doctor. He worked on patching men up while rapid gunfire was being shot off behind him without showing emotion.

But here, for a reason he couldn't fathom, John had to look away. Drop his head to the cushion of the couch as his hand reached for Sherlock's, grasping it and squeezing tightly.

Here again, Sherlock was confused. He'd known, of course, that John would not be particularly happy when seeing /this/ scar, out of all of them. But...the hand-holding? The inability to even /look/ at it? Why? They were only scars...

That was what Sherlock tried to tell himself. He couldn't. He, too, was more affected by the wounds than he would have liked to admit. What they stood for. The fact that he had endured the pain, the humiliation, in permanent marring, for a child that wasn't John's, because his bitch of an ex-wife had cheated on him. "If it is any consolation," Sherlock began, and he felt that he was saying so simply because he knew that it wouldn't be, "I would never cheat on you." /Jesus/. You aren't /dating/. You're not in love with him. You don't /feel/ love. This is /John/. Your /friend/. Your /only/ /friend/. And yet, he didn't regret saying the words.


	3. Chapter 3

**Here's chapter three! There's a little bit of steamier stuff here, but nothing _too_ intense. That stuff'll come later on. Enjoy, and please R&R!**

Sherlock's words made John look up. He wasn't /about/ to get all emotional about this, but something in Sherlock's words hit something inside of him. Made his stomach clench and his chest tighten in a way that he couldn't understand.

This is what happened when Sherlock tried to protect the baby-and by extension, John himself.

He was so conflicted. John didn't know whether or not to hit him or punch him in the face.

So he did a bit of both.

He grabbed the front of Sherlock's robe and pulled him up, reaching around and smacking him-the angle was hard for John to get a good punch in-and then immediately grasping him around the neck and pulling him into John, winding both arms tightly around his neck and burying his face in the crook of his neck.

"You're such a goddamn idiot," he told him in a short breath.

Sherlock's eyes widened when he was jerked upwards, and a bit more when his face was slapped. What the /hell/ was that? Perhaps John had been aiming for a punch but had decided against it at last minute...but no, the position of his hand hadn't been that to deliver a bunch. He couldn't get to his face well enough to deliver such a blow, then? Christ. If he wasn't so high, he would know. And then John was hugging him. Again, strange. John was a contradiction. He was a doctor who became a soldier. He hit Sherlock one moment and hugged him the next. He said that they were through and then he came to treat Sherlock's wounds. It made him unpredictable, and that made him interesting. "I'm not an idiot," Sherlock mumbled, as he brought one of his arms up to wrap around John. "I just do idiotic things. Sometimes."

John sighed into Sherlock's neck and let his eyes close. He was filled with so many emotions, so many feelings that were waging a war inside of him and he really didn't know how to deal with any of them. He didn't know whether he needed to hit something, hold it, smash it or cradle it.

He was lost.

But feeling Sherlock wrap an arm around him grounded him somewhat, brought his reality and attention to a hazy circle, but razor sharp in the middle.

He let himself breath for a moment.

"No," he murmured against his skin. "You're an idiot..."

He pulled back a little and pressed his forehead to Sherlock's shoulder. He was at a bit of an odd angle, still on one knee, while the other was pressed to the side of the sofa.

He wondered how high Sherlock was right now. If he weren't, would he let John hug him like this? Would he had suggested any of this at all?

"What happens after all of this?" he asked. "Where will you go? What will you do?"

Sherlock's eyes shifted to stare at John's head. It did not look very comfortable, but John didn't seem to mind. Sherlock found that he didn't, either. He swallowed and shook his head. "I don't know." He put his hand on John's neck and slid it up, trailing his long fingers through the short, graying hair and watching as it fluttered back into place. "Maybe I'll go live with Jim. Maybe I'll have him send me somewhere. America, perhaps. New York. It's similar enough to London." He sighed through his nose. "Or, maybe I should retire." Jesus, would that ever be hateful. He'd be bored to no end with nothing to do to take his mind off of it. Even retiring with John or Jim would be a bad idea. He needed to do things for as long as he was physically able. "What will /you/ do, John?"

The feeling of Sherlock's hand carding through his hair was an unusually good feeling, but it floated away just as quickly at the reality of Sherlock's words.

He pulled away and sat back on his heels, eyes downcast, hands falling from Sherlock's neck down to his lap.

Live with /Jim/. Retire. Nothing that involved John.

It hurt, he admitted. It was a wrenching feeling in his gut, knowing he wouldn't be in Sherlock's life anymore. Knowing he was being forced out, not only by Jim, but that Sherlock was letting it happen.

"I don't know," he finally said quietly, shrugging. "I really don't know what I'll do... Move, I guess, for starters. But... who knows where."

Sherlock moved further on the couch, bending down so that he was closer to John. "You don't know where?" he asked, and lifted an eyebrow. Why didn't John know where? Sherlock had told him where he was probably going to go, if he moved. So how did John not...ah. He had also mentioned the possibility of living with Jim. That was a slim chance. "You will move to New York," Sherlock informed him. Not asked-informed. "There's no reason we could not get a flat there. Jim will pay to get us settled." Well, maybe. Unless Jim got incredibly jealous of John and cut Sherlock off. Or killed John. Or Sherlock. Or both. But Sherlock couldn't imagine that happening. Perhaps he truly had been brainwashed by him.

John furrowed his eyebrows and looked up at Sherlock, shaking his head.

"Either you're really fucking high, or you're just delusional. I don't know what he did to you, but he's got you thinking like a basket case."

Did Sherlock really believe that James Moriarty was going to just let them go off together? Live happily ever after? Or would he, only to show up every few months with a new set of explosives and murder-games for them all to play?

John may not have spent /time/ with the man like apparently Sherlock had, but John remembered exactly the kind of man he was, and nothing Sherlock said would convince him otherwise.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. Was that it? Was this /all/ the drugs talking? It hadn't been at first...he hadn't been high the /whole/ time that he'd been talking to John, at least. "Perhaps it is both," he murmured. "Although he has done very little /to/ me." Unlike now. Now, Sherlock was going to do something /to/ John. Just to see what would happen. Just to have his question answered, just to be told whether or not Jim Moriarty had been right about this, right about John being in love with him and him not even being able to see it. It was the perfect position. John's head was up. Sherlock's was down. He leaned forward, bending at the waist, and pressed their lips together and held them and held them there. It wasn't because he wanted the kiss to last, per se, but more out of not knowing how long to linger.

John, honest to god, froze.

That was... unexpected.

His brain short-circuited for a moment, halting any and all thoughts, with the exception of a flashing bright red lights that screamed at him to do something. /Anything/.

And what was worse, Sherlock wasn't moving either. They were pressed together, each seemingly unsure of what to do-or in John's case, what was /happening/.

But he knew. Of course he did. It was what he had come here for. So what was the shock? Was it because it was actually happening? That Sherlock Holmes was actually kissing him? Was it because he had never kissed a man before?

His eyes remained open, staring directly back at Sherlock's. He tried to read him; tried to do anything he could do get any indication of... well. /Anything/, really.

He got nothing.

So John did what he did best.

Shut his eyes and let go.

He tilted his head and pressed back against his lips.

If this wasn't the most uncomfortable thing Sherlock had ever done in his life...there was no 'if'. It /was/ the most uncomfortable thing. The first kiss with Jim had been...different. He didn't know how, but it was just /different/. Better. Sherlock would admit that it was better. It wasn't tense and awkward and nervous like this one. Perhaps that was because Sherlock had been working to impress Jim, and Jim to impress him. He and John, though, were being themselves. They were letting the other see how clueless and awkward they were. Sherlock sighed out his nose when John adjusted himself into the kiss. That was a good sign, yes? He could have pulled away, but instead the doctor had further engaged himself in it. Sherlock swallowed and lifted his hand, placing it on John's cheek. His skin was warm. Or maybe Sherlock was just cold. It was cold in the room despite the hater and he was wearing boxer shorts and nothing else; of course he was cold.

Instincts would have told John to mirror Sherlock's movement, but it was like going back to kissing 101. He felt awkward and clumsy, and when he tried moving forward, his knee twinged painfully and he hissed a little against Sherlock's mouth. His hands finally found their way to his shoulders, but he wasn't sure if he placed them there to push him back or pull him in closer. So he ended up doing a bit of both.

He was also suddenly very aware of his surroundings, and that was weird, because wasn't a great first kiss supposed to transport you to a world where nothing else existed? Here, all John could think of was how the heater was making a weird noise in the corner, or how the person he was kissing was probably high as a goddamn kite and how he couldn't /quite/ get the right angle...

Maybe it was because he knew Sherlock was thinking. He couldn't lose himself in the kiss because he knew Sherlock wasn't either. He could practically hear the wheels turning in his head and it was /distracting./

John finally pulled away, but kept his hands on Sherlock's shoulders.

It wasn't really a good kiss. It was weird and awkward and John wasn't sure what Sherlock was getting from it, but their faces remained close.

Ah. John pulled away. Not good, then. Worse than he had thought, apparently, because Sherlock hadn't been planning to pull away just then. But since John had, he must have found the kiss /very/ unpleasant. Well, they didn't need to speak of it again. Not at all. In fact, things would be better if they didn't, yes. Although.../why/ hadn't John liked it? The bad angle? Had Sherlock not applied enough pressure to his lips? Was it the timing again? Did John not like being underneath Sherlock for it? Was it the temperature of the room? The fact that Sherlock was nearly nude? /What/? His pride kept him from asking. Just in case it had been his fault, somehow, that the kiss had been unpleasant, he didn't want to hear it. This way, he could maintain his happy ignorance and sweep this memory under the rug, laugh it off, delete it. Sherlock nodded as he met John's eyes, as if to say, 'We tried it, we were horrible, it's over'. Instead, he settled for what he considered could be viewed as complimentary. "You are the second and only other person with whom I would willingly do that."

John didn't understand what the hell Sherlock meant by that. Unless... Oh. Oh. Of course.

Moriarty, then. So John was the second kiss. Second again. /Other/ person. If Sherlock were trying to make John feel good about it, it really wasn't working. If anything, he actually felt worse than before.

He stared up him, unsure what he should do. He didn't want to pull away, but he also had the sudden urge to bolt for the door and hightail it back to his flat.

His empty, cold, horrible little flat that he had come to /fucking hate/ these past few months.

Sherlock's eyes told John that it was a mistake. The way his mouth set in an uncertain line. John could almost hear him telling John how bad he was, and how it was no wonder he couldn't keep a girlfriend. It wouldn't have been strange for him. This was the same man who consistently told him that all his other friends hated John, after all.

But this was... it for them. Their last night, possibly forever.

And John wasn't going to let it end like that.

He furrowed his eyebrows and moved his hands from Sherlock's shoulders to the back of his neck, cupping firmly and pulling him down at the same moment John tilted up.

When their lips met, John's eyes closed, his head tilted and he coaxed Sherlock's lips to work with his own.

/Help me.../

The second kiss was more pleasant. Sherlock felt more confident that John wanted it, at least. He initiated it. He moved his lips. Good signs, both. Sherlock put his hand on John's shoulder and squeezed the fabric of his shirt while sliding further off the couch, until he could kneel in front of John. He was still taller, of course, but at least he wasn't having to bend down at such an awkward angle. Sherlock's hand slid around to rest between John's shoulder blades, and the other was placed on his waist. Just for a second, though, and then it moved to John's lower back. He wanted this. John wanted it, too. Sherlock didn't know /why/ either of them wanted it, but he wasn't going to dispute it. There'd be time for that later. Assuming he could talk John round to living with him. Sherlock wasn't sure why he hadn't readily agreed to that in the first place, if he were being honest. Which he /could/ do from time to time. This kiss was undoubtedly better; their lips were moving together and they fit better together. John's nose wasn't smashing against Sherlock's this time around. After about ten or fifteen seconds (normally Sherlock would know the exact amount, but he had other things on his mind and drugs in his system), he pulled away and nodded towards the door on the opposite end of the room. "Bedroom. Why don't you go in there and...your clothes." He gestured with his hand, indicating that John should take them off. It was only fair. "I'll bring the heater in."

Oh...

John's brain was close to short-circuiting again, but he managed to reel himself in before it started.

Because when Sherlock motioned to the bedroom, mentioned his clothes, it was gravely settling in what was happening, and John didn't know whether he should feel scared as hell, aroused, eager, awkward, or all of the above. This /was/ Sherlock Holmes, after all. His friend. His /only/ friend, really... Honestly, this entire night had been all over the place. When he woke up this morning, he would never have expected... this.

He simply nodded curtly, however, and stood, glancing towards the door Sherlock indicated and hesitantly making his way over to it.

It was strange how... formal this all felt. John had the strangest sense of being involved in some messed up business transaction.

He pushed open the door to the bedroom-simple, really. There was a bed in the middle, a single table on the right of it and what looked like a tiny bathroom attached. There was no dresser, but that was to be expected. After all, this was not the kind of place anyone lived in. Not long, anyway.

He sat down on the edge, watching the doorway warily.

The second kiss had been better, he thought. Still nothing mind-blowing, but... they could only improve.

He only managed to kick off his shoes and pulling his jumper over his head-revealing a t-shirt beneath, when Sherlock entered.

/Are you sure you want this?/

The voice in Sherlock's head was Jim's. His was often the loudest. If not Jim's, than John's. Over the two years that Sherlock had been 'dead', it had been John. When Sherlock was with Jim, it was John. Jim had once compared John to being the angel on Sherlock's shoulder, and himself being the devil. Two conflicting voices in one's mind that directed a person's path. When Sherlock asked what two people Jim had, the criminal answered, 'You, and me, my dear.'

Sherlock took the heater, growling in frustration as he unplugged it from the wall. Jim was still speaking in his mind. /You're nervous. There's no need to be nervous/. When Sherlock muttered to himself that he didn't /get/ nervous, Jim reminded him, /you always /feel/ it, Sherlock, but you don't have to /fear/ it/. Ah, yes. He'd heard that before.

Sherlock brought the heater into the bedroom and offered John a polite-albeit awkward-smile. John was still...dressed. Why? Maybe he didn't want this after all. Then again, Sherlock /had/, basically, pressured him into it. /He can always say no, Sherlock/. Yes. Yes, he could. It wasn't as if the virgin detective was suddenly going to lose himself in sensations. After plugging in the heater and moving it closer to the bed, Sherlock adjusted the heat setting to low. He didn't want to be pouring sweat. John wouldn't want that either, surely. He pointed towards the door and cleared his throat. "I'm just, um-going to...um...teeth. Brush my teeth."

Thank God for the perfect excuse. Sherlock grabbed John's bag and got the toothbrush and toothpaste, and then he locked himself in the bathroom. He brushed his teeth longer than was probably necessary-but God, did it feel good-and then he washed his face, teased his hair a bit to try and dry it. Lastly, Sherlock helped himself to a bit more 'pain management'. When he returned to the bedroom, the first thing he did was frown. John was still dressed. That wasn't a good sign, was it? He sat down beside the doctor on the bed and stared ahead at the opposite wall. "We do not have to do this." It had been Sherlock's idea and now he was admitting that it may have been a bad one. /How the mighty have fallen.../

When Sherlock emerged from the bathroom and joined him on the bed, John made no effort to move, aside from casting a sideways glance at him while his body remained turned towards the wall.

Sherlock had been in there for quite a long time... Long enough for John to have easily disrobed by now, anyway. He had fiddled with the buttons on his trousers and had managed to undo them, but his fingers felt heavy and he couldn't bring himself to do much else.

It just felt... wrong. All of this, it felt wrong. John wasn't aroused. He wasn't even really that excited. He enjoyed their second kiss, sure. He /had/ gotten into it a bit more, but the short time apart had been enough to wash away the warmth and replace it with something cold. Uncertainty was such a bitch.

He finally turned his head to look at Sherlock and raised an eyebrow.

"Is this even what /you/ want?" he asked him quietly. "Or are you just doing this to... I don't know...Make me feel better about things?"

Thankfully, that was a question that Sherlock /did/ know the answer to. "I want to do this /to/ make you feel better about things." It wasn't a lie. God's-honest truth. "However, if it will not do so, then there is no reason for us to...do so." Eloquently put, Sherlock. Sherlock leaned against John, just his body weight, not his head, and shook his head slowly as he considered their options. "I have heard of men going to prostitutes after losing their wives. Men using sexual intercourse as a release during stressful times, or as a way to cheer themselves up when they are upset. I just-" Sherlock inhaled sharply; he hated this. He hated being so clueless and he hated appearing so open and honest, and yet, at the same time, vulnerable. "I have nothing more to offer you," he admitted in continuance. "I had suggested that you come to New York with me, but you did not seem to care for that idea. Understandably so, of course; I don't blame you in the slightest. You would be charged not only with harbouring a fugitive, but also for associating with one. Your life /may/ be in danger by coming with me from the very man that I had saved, by the British government and possibly the Americans as well. I haven't any idea."

John shook his head, but had to admit that the warmth and comfort of Sherlock's body leaning against his own was not unwelcome.

He should have known, really. Known that all of this would happen someday. He never really expected that he was the kind of man who would live a long life-a fact that he had long since accepted. (You didn't calmly give your consent to your best friend to shoot an explosive device if you planned on having a long life, after all.) But that was just the way things were with Sherlock. John wasn't quite sure what kind of man that made /him/ for sticking around so long, but John had also long accepted to just not ask questions of himself. He never got the answers anyway.

He /could/ go with Sherlock. Risk his life once again just to be with him... But strangely, it wasn't that which John was most concerned about.

It was James Moriarty, and the apparent hold he had over Sherlock.

And it was Sherlock, who didn't seem to care one way or another that John's life /could/ be in danger. He knew Sherlock cared for him... But this was beginning to make him wonder to what extent. What it all meant.

And was sex going to help John? Sherlock implied he was still inexperienced, and god knew John was no expert with another man... This had the very real possibility of making things worse. Did Sherlock think this would make them closer, as well, perhaps?

He raked a hand through his hair, scrubbing it and exhaling deeply.

"I don't know if I'll go with you," he admitted. "If I don't, then..." he trailed off with a small shrug.

Not knowing was better than 'no'. But, John followed up that statement with 'If I don't. That implied, to Sherlock, that John was very much against going. Well, at least Sherlock knew not to take it personally. No, that was a lie. He /didn't/ know. It was impossible not to take it personally. Sherlock nodded, and now he /did/ lean his head against John's shoulder. His cheek rubbed against the man's t-shirt. "I suppose that if you no longer wish to be in my life, I will just stay with Jim. It will allow me to protect you better, being with him. I will have access to everything that he has access to." Sherlock turned his head, slightly, and kissed John's shoulder. It was barely a kiss and more just him brushing his lips, but he had /intended/ for it to be a kiss. "Mycroft will give you trouble, but he won't have you killed, I don't believe." So much for being reassuring. "Your being alive will not cause mass paranoia as mine will." He kissed John again, more firmly this time to make sure that it could be felt. "Nobody will know about your knowledge besides my brother. I suspect that he will speak to you privately. You may tell him what you wish. Jim has the means to protect himself; that means that he has the means to protect me." And he would do so...wouldn't he? Sherlock truthfully didn't know. He felt that he would, but Jim /was/ a psychopath. Psychopaths get bored. If Jim did so, of him or just in general, perhaps he would take pleasure in Sherlock playing 'survivor'.

At least it wouldn't be boring.

John closed his eyes and let his head fall forward slightly, trying to concentrate on the pressure of Sherlock's mouth against his shoulder. The feeling was nice, he decided.

It was strange how quickly he could accept that. Over forty years of self-proclaimed heterosexuality and suddenly he was sitting in a tiny bedroom on top of a tiny bed while his very /male/ best friend was asking him for this.

Well. Not asking, he supposed. Offering.

Then again, John had long since accepted he were in love with him. The words were never spoken, even now, or constantly acknowledged... but it was there all the same. It had probably been there for a long time.

He let his head roll sideways on top of Sherlock's and he breathed in.

Whatever John decided, he knew he didn't have long to do so. Things were moving quickly-a /lot/ of things were moving quickly and John knew that when he woke up tomorrow, things would be very different.

But John didn't want to think of tomorrow yet.

He reached an arm around Sherlock's waist and pulled him closer, lifting his head and looking up at Sherlock.

"I don't want to talk anymore," he said quietly.


	4. Chapter 4

If John didn't want to talk, then what the bloody hell did he-oh. /Oh/. Well, at least Sherlock had his answer. What he /hoped/ was his answer, because if he was wrong he was going to look a right fool, and not for the first time that evening. Sherlock swallowed thickly and lifted his own head. He stood up and bent down, lifting John's legs onto the bed and helping the doctor shift into a position he could lie down in. It wasn't as if John couldn't do these things himself, but Sherlock wanted to convey to him that he understood what was happening. Thought he understood, anyway. When John was positioned, before he could do /anything/, Sherlock had gotten on top of him, straddled him. It was a very, /very/ bold move, but effective. He pulled the sheets up over his body, thus over John's as well. It was still cold in the room. Maybe turning the heater on low had been yet another bad idea.

Sherlock crossed his arms underneath John's head and leaned down for a kiss. He brushed his lips over John's, lightly, before electing to kiss his cheek instead, then his temple. He would not deny that he was apprehensive. It had been so easy with Janine because it had been /fake/. Acting. He'd been playing a role and nothing more. It had been easy with Jim because it had been a contest, to see who could conquer their 'fears' and who would be the one to make the first move. With John, it was neither of those things. Here, it was the ridiculous attempt of an even more ridiculous man to convey affection and apology.

To say that John was surprised at Sherlock's boldness would have been a grave understatement. The man had completely taken the reigns even with his own apparent uncertainty, leaving John to let himself be guided as if /he/ were the inexperienced one.

When Sherlock began trailing his lips across John's face, he closed his eyes and let his hands settle on Sherlock's back, rubbing gently up and down, though he had to admit his mind hadn't exactly turned off-the first time /really/ touching the man, and he felt like it was wrong somehow. Like he shouldn't be. Sherlock was no delicate piece of artwork, but he still seemed to come with an invisible sign on his forehead that very boldly told anyone: Do Not Touch.

Even with Sherlock on top of him like this, kissing him, John felt like at any moment, he would push himself away from John and decided that he didn't like it-too boring, probably. Too tedious.

John sighed inwardly, trying to clear his mind. Perhaps if he instructed...? That felt bold, and John wasn't sure if Sherlock would like that, but knowing what he liked might be helpful...

He was going to speak, but his voice failed him and he moved one hand to the back of Sherlock's head and guided it down to his neck-right on his pulse.

"Here," he managed softly. "Do that here."

To say that Sherlock was grateful for the instruction would be a /huge/ understatement. Not only was he grateful, but he had been pleading for one, in his own mind, hoping that John would, somehow, hear him in his. Telepathy wasn't something that Sherlock believed in, but he did believe that people got close enough to and comfortable enough with that they could predict the other person's moves or finish their sentences. Sherlock didn't have to be very close to the other person for this to be a possibility-he /was/ a genius after all-but he had long since learned that John did not always act how Sherlock expected him to. He put his hand on John's face to keep it tilted; the angle couldn't have been comfortable, but if it was John wanted, then who was he to deny him that? Ha! As if he hadn't denied him many, many a thing in the past. Some just out of his own selfishness, like never allowing John to date. His marriage failing, Sherlock was almost glad that he hadn't held all the responsibility for that. Some of it, perhaps...but certainly not all. Mary would have been killed. John would have realised that the child wasn't his sooner than later. Then again, he hadn't even known that Mary was pregnant...

Too many thoughts. /Why/ did he have so many goddamn thoughts? And, perhaps, more importantly, why did he /care/ that he had so many? Normally it was good. Except lately. Lately, with Jim, it had not been particularly pleasant. The heroin had helped. Why wasn't it helping now?!

Sherlock pressed his lips against John's carotid artery, exactly where he had been told to. He sucked on it lightly, even bit down on it. People liked all three of those, didn't they? Some people, anyway. Sherlock made sure to leave enough space between each action so that he could analyse John's response to each.

It was a good start, John decided. Sherlock hadn't bitten his head off for telling him how to do it, so that was a good sign.

His hand was placed a bit awkwardly on John's face, but that was okay, he supposed. As long as his lips kept working on his neck-always an overly sensitive spot for John-it could work.

He turned his head to the side, away from Sherlock's hand to give him better access while the hand on the back of Sherlock's head threaded gently into the curls and began pushing down a little harder; a silent request for more pressure.

Sherlock was perhaps a bit slower then John would have normally liked, but it was beginning to feel good all the same. The gentle nips and scrapes of teeth against his flesh was making him relax more, his body beginning to melt down into the mattress; lose just a bit of stiffness.

"Good," he murmured when he felt a bit of tongue swipe across the spot.

The hand not at Sherlock's head was still rested on his back and John hesitantly began to rub up and down once more.

He wondered what Sherlock would like... And then he wondered how far he were actually willing to go.

Sherlock couldn't deny it-he was using this as experimentation. He was seeing what affected John and how it did; he was measuring what amount of pressure John wanted on his neck, the exact distance he should work around to give John the maximum amount of pleasure. He measured the temperature of John's skin before and after his own breath had been blowing against it. He-of course-measured John's heart rate and noted when it sped up. He only vaguely felt John's hands on him, but he /did/ notice that they were there, and he noticed when they froze and when they began moving again. What was the significance of that? Why had John stopped? Why had he started back up? Why had he moved his hand into Sherlock's hair? Just to press on his head, just to indicate that he wanted more? If that was what /that/ was, then what were the hands on his back meant to be?

Sherlock knew that he was doing it correctly. 'It' meaning 'this'. John had told him that it was good. His heart was beating faster, and his breathing was quickening. How long was he supposed to do this, though? This couldn't be the only thing that John liked, surely? Or maybe it was. Sherlock had absolutely no idea. He did know, however, that there was a spot on the opposite side of John's neck that was symmetrical with the one he was working right now, and he was curious to see if John's sensitivity would extend to the other side. With that intent, he lifted his head, swept it over John's throat, and buried it into his neck again, generally repeating the same actions he had been doing on the right side, now on the left.

This was... good. Very good. John's breath hitched a little in his throat when Sherlock changed spots, working on the other side of his neck with the same amount of vigor as the right side.

He was still very aware of what was happening, but with his eyes closed, he could focus mainly on sensation. It had, admittedly, been a while for him-pregnant newfound assassin wife didn't exactly bode well for romance and intimacy-and it was beginning to lose the edge and melt away into actual pleasure.

His body was beginning to react; his right hand tightening into Sherlock's hair, his other grasping his waist firmly. He tilted his head back a little while he rocked upwards, just barely, against Sherlock's own firm body.

When Sherlock sucked a particularly hard mark into his skin, a little groan escaped John's mouth and the gentle rubbing turned into a light scraping of nails against his bare skin.

But what suddenly drew John's attention back to the present was Sherlock's own responses; or lack thereof.

The man on top of him was almost completely silent, save for the little slick pops against John's skin.

His eyes opened and stared at the ceiling before he sighed-a little louder than probably necessary.

Sherlock was getting nothing from this, was he?

"Sherlock," he finally murmured, coaxing his head back up.

Dammit. /Now/ John wanted to talk. That meant he'd done something wrong. But /what/? John had moaned. That was a good sign, he had thought. When John lifted his body to press against Sherlock's...Sherlock hadn't liked that. He hadn't expected it. He hadn't known how to react to it. To his credit, he had remained still, save for his hands clenching into tight fists. John probably hadn't noticed. And yet, he was still pulling away and speaking Sherlock's name. The sigh had been one of disappointed. Or annoyance. Or frustration. Possibly all three of them.

Sherlock lifted his head and looked down at John. The doctor's neck was wet and red, with little teeth marks and dark blotches on it from Sherlock's attention. Sherlock knew that his own lips were wet and red, too, and he untangled his arms from beneath John's neck so that he could wipe his mouth with the back of his hand. He cocked his head and allowed his eyes to narrow as he stared at the other man. "Not good?"

That was the impression that he was getting, but /why/ wasn't it good? What had he done incorrectly? He replayed the scene in his mind, from when he had moved on top of John up until John saying his name. Everything had seemed fine. He hadn't hurt John. He hadn't done anything but what he had said to. So what the bloody hell was the problem?

John stared up at Sherlock, met his eyes and didn't shy away from it.

"For me, yeah, it was fine," he replied. "But..."

He trailed off, thinking. Sherlock looked down at John, almost annoyed and it caused John to breath out a huff. He propped himself up on his elbows, but for the most part, remained laying down.

He could ask, he supposed. Come right out and just ask if Sherlock even /actually/ wanted this. He were doing it for John, that much was clear, but John himself was beginning to wonder if that made any of this okay,

"I'm going to try something," he finally said, glancing back at him uncertainly. "But you have to tell me... If you don't like it."

He moved forward, pushing himself up until Sherlock backed away, but he brought his hand back to his neck and cupped it there, pulling Sherlock down until their lips met.

It was much easier doing this on the bed. John had better access, was able to kiss him properly. He shifted, taking a bit of control back and pulling Sherlock down to his side until they were facing each other and John could swing a leg over his body and press down on Sherlock, keeping the kiss in tact.

A kiss? That was what John had wanted to try? But...they already /had/ kissed...how was this different? John was a bit more proactive, Sherlock supposed. Or rather, John was more...in control. Not really, because they were lying beside each other-John had made sure of that. Sherlock should have taken into account that John was both a Captain and a doctor; he was used to people doing what he said. Not /Sherlock/, per se, but didn't women usually take on a more passive role in the bedroom? Of course Sherlock wasn't a woman, but John had /been/ with women, so if he were treating Sherlock the same way that he treated them, well...maybe that was all it was.

Sherlock allowed it to happen. He didn't mind. It was just another kiss. That was really how he felt-indifferent. Did he like it? He supposed that it was fine, yes. Did he dislike it? No, he didn't. Indifference all the way through. Sherlock wasn't indifferent when he kissed Jim. He /was/ indifferent about the kiss, but he was insistent because he wanted to /win/. He wasn't sure, exactly, what it was that he was winning, but he wanted it to happen regardless. He made a soft 'mm' noise in the back of his throat when John's leg went over his body. He had not been expecting that. John wanted to keep him close and contained, it seemed.

John had told Sherlock to tell him if he didn't like it. Sherlock didn't not like it. He just didn't particularly /like/ it. That being said, he kept his words to himself and let his lips remain pressed to John's. He didn't know where to put his hands, though, dammit. He moved one to rest on John's side, over his ribcage. He had already touched his waist, face, and shoulder. Now, he could count John's ribs as he rubbed his side, list the names of the bones in his mind, picture the organs beneath them. Sherlock's lips moved slowly against John's in a timorous attempt at returning the kiss.

John perked up a little more when Sherlock made that quiet sound. At least it was /some/ kind of reaction, and he took it as a fairly good sign.

When he settled his body over Sherlock's, he pressed his weight on him fully, moving both hands behind his head, as if he were cradling it against the pillow.

Even still, he could feel Sherlock, just /knew/ that he wasn't with him, wasn't even sure if he were mentally in the same room as him, and while it discouraged him, he continued to move his mouth against Sherlock's, gently opening his own mouth, tongue swiping across his lower lip and coaxing them to open.

Normally, John-a bit smugly-liked to pride himself on being a good lover. He never heard otherwise, anyway, and he liked to think of himself as more of a giving partner than a receiving one. This was different from other times, sure, and for all John knew, Sherlock /didn't/ like this, would /never/ like this, and it was a waste of time to even try to continue this... but John could at least /try/.

He broke away from Sherlock's mouth and began trailing his lips down to his jaw, nipping a trail down until he reached his neck and began sucking gently. One hand freed itself from the back of his head and traced down his chest slowly, massaging gentle circles into his skin while his tongue darted out and began lashing against his pulse.

It was interesting, Sherlock felt, how he was now in the position that John had just been in. He was reacting much differently to it, of course, but it was the same general idea. Perhaps John had felt that, since Sherlock had done it this way, he would be more comfortable having it done to him.

The detective could not stop thinking about the 'whys'. Yes, there where 'whats'. There were 'what ifs'. There were 'what is coming'. But more than anything, /why/? That was the hardest question to answer. It always was. To figure out /why/ somebody did something, one had to be attuned to human emotions and feelings. Sherlock wasn't. He'd thought that John would be waiting for him at Baker Street when he returned; he'd thought that John would need only two weeks to grieve. He'd thought that Jim would accept defeat with dignity, not attempt to kill himself. He'd thought that John would leave Mary after learning of her secret past. He'd thought that Mary would admit to John about her affair. Mary herself had told him, the night they had first met, 'You don't know anything about human nature, do you?' No. He didn't.

Huh. It dawned on Sherlock, just now, that he had an excuse. He /didn't/ know anything about human nature. He had little to no idea how the things he did or didn't do would affect those around him. It wasn't that he didn't care (although he wasn't implying that he /did/), it was that he simply didn't know. He'd told Molly that Jim was gay because he'd considered it to be the kinder thing to do. Jim wasn't gay, of course, despite their kisses, but that was beside the point. Sherlock didn't consider himself gay, either, nor did John. Yet here they were.

John's hand on his chest made Sherlock frown. John could feel his scars, even if he wasn't actively looking at them right now. That wouldn't be a good reminder, would it? 'You may be in bed with him, kissing him, touching him, but /I/ own him, Doctor Watson'. Maybe John would think that, would imagine Jim cutting the words into him. Unpleasant at best. Sherlock tilted his head back, pulling away just enough so he could ask, "Should I put a shirt on?"

John's lips stilled against Sherlock's neck at his question. His fingers had paused against the rough, ragged edges of the cut in his chest. He had tried not thinking of them. He had felt them, but tried to avoid touching there-for more than one reason. He hadn't exactly given him the best medical attention there. That would have taken much longer, and Sherlock kissing him had interrupted the properness of the exam. For another, John felt like by touching there, he would be reminded of what was going on between them. Be reminded that someone else had gotten here first, had hurt Sherlock, had touched him like this... That Sherlock was completely okay with that. That it didn't matter what John thought because to some degree, James Moriarty would always hold a spsot higher than John in at least /some/ way.

So when Sherlock spoke about them, perhaps sensing some of that discomfort, or experiencing a bit of his own.

Because now it was all John /could/ think about. A knife. A wolf-like smile and dark eyes. Carving and blood and Sherlock running back to him...

He sighed and pulled away.

Honestly, this whole thing was just a disaster. This whole /night/ was a disaster. John's whole /life/ was a bit of a disaster.

Would saying yes make things awkward? Would telling him no displease Sherlock? John didn't even know what he preferred-shirt on, probably, but he still couldn't bring himself to voice it.

Instead, he lowered his head to Sherlock's and pressed their foreheads together firmly for a moment before placing both hands to the side of his face and pulling him upwards once more.

John was much more firm this time, pressing their mouths together and immediately working his mouth open with his tongue, coaxing Sherlock's lips to work with his own until he gained access. He dipped into his mouth while his hands moved away from his chest and up into the mess of curls, tangling in and holding firmly.

He didn't stop kissing him, but continued thoroughly, blocking out any and all thoughts and trying to map out the inside of Sherlock's mouth as he pressed their fronts together firmly.

Sherlock didn't like this. The tongue in his mouth, the way it was tracing every inch of his, no. No, no. Too much. It was too much, too soon. He didn't know /why/ he didn't like it-perhaps just because he hadn't been the one doing it to John first-but it wasn't something that struck him as being particularly pleasant. Dammit, /why/ didn't he like it? Was he really just /that/ uninterested in all things sexual? Probably. He'd never tried before to be able to tell. He knew that, had he and Jim attempted anything, the actions would probably be the same, but the results different. He and Jim would be slamming each other against walls, flipping each other over, grabbing the other's hair and forcing their tongues into each other's mouths just to have dominance. They would probably both try so hard to be in control that nothing would even happen, ha. It would be just a constant struggle, neither of them willing to give in.

And then there was John. John had just done something that Sherlock /did/ like. When he had pressed their foreheads together, it had only taken Sherlock a split-second to think: /this/. /This/ is nice. As was typical when Sherlock found something that he enjoyed, it was over as quickly as it had started. Very unfortunate, that. It had not been an overtly sexual gesture, of course, and perhaps that was the reason Sherlock had liked it so much. It had been calming and affectionate without being insistent. Without Sherlock feeling that he was supposed to give something back. Even if he'd wanted to, he simply didn't know what was appropriate to do. He allowed John to lick around his mouth. He allowed John's chest to rub over his own, even though he felt it was irritating his scars. It was burning, and he could map out the letters that were now part of his being. Sherlock sighed through his nose and moved one hand up to rest in between John's shoulder blades. There. That was something good, at least.

John's body was heating up fast, his breathing becoming slightly more shallow the more insistently that he kissed him. It was an outlet for all of the pent up aggression, pain, heartbreak and anger that John had been experiencing these past few...Years, really. The thing about all of this is that is wasn't a burst of energy from a little turmoil that had been raging inside of John, but /years/ of it. And the emotions, once given the outlet, had caused a snowball effect. Things were moving faster and faster in John's head and things like reason and logic were thrown to the wind once Sherlock had let him in-literally.

And yet, for all John felt, he still felt /nothing./ Because for all he knew, Sherlock was a well responsive doll beneath him. A pliant, but not willing body.

And John had no idea what he was supposed to do to coax him into something more. John hadn't the first clue how to make this better. And maybe that was the answer; this couldn't be better. Maybe this just wasn't for them.

He wasn't going to force dominance on him. He wasn't going to even let Sherlock try to do it his way.

He would do nothing.

John's lips left Sherlock's and he looked away from him as he rolled off of him, hissing a little when he tried to prop himself up on his bad shoulder.

"It's fine," he offered, before Sherlock could even ask what was wrong. "Let's just... not."

Sherlock sighed and bit down on his bottom lip as he thought. "I do not understand what I'm doing wrong." He was doing everything that John asked of him. He was letting John do everything that he wanted to. What was the problem?! With a growl, he stood up. Fine. /Fine/. "I can't apologise," he muttered as he left the room, going into the sitting area to retrieve Jim's robe. "I can't make it up to you-" he slipped the robe on as he spoke-"I can't fix my so-called 'mistake'." He gasped in mock surprise. "Oh, wait! I /can/ fix it, but it would involve one of the two people on this whole bloody earth that I give a damn about, /dying/. But no, that's perfectly fucking fine. Sherlock Holmes does something just so he can /maybe/ be a bit happy for once, and look what it gets him? The end of the only friendship he's ever had, and the end of the fucking world."

He sounded pathetic. He /knew/ he sounded pathetic. He was complaining like a bloody teenager, 'woe-is-me' and the like, and he was rambling. That hadn't been cocaine he'd taken, had it? He had meant to take heroin, anyway...maybe it /had/ been cocaine. Whoops. Well, it wouldn't have been the first time he'd made a mistake regarding drugs. The one that stood out in his mind the most was when he and Jim had done LSD together and had taken particularly bad trips. Never, never again was he gonig to use /that/.

Sherlock was feeling restless, now. Angry. Upset. Stressed to hell. Useless. In this moment, he would have /rather/ been bored.

John sat on the edge of the bed, listening as Sherlock left in a huff and remaining still as he heard him spouting off things in the next room that John didn't really understand.

He was so damn tired, so stretched thin and bloody worn out that for a moment, he almost didn't even have the strength to fight back.

Almost.

When Sherlock began rambling off about-what he assumed was-Moriarty, John stood up with a prolonged exhale as he buttoned up the few buttons of his trousers and stepped roughly back into his shoes.

He stalked back into the sitting room glaring.

"You know what, I'm not the one who offered... whatever the hell that was supposed to be in there," he said, pointing back at the bedroom. "/I'm/ not the one trying to use /that/ as a means to apologize for anything, Sherlock."

He went to reach for his jacket-more just to have something to do-as he spoke.

"Sorry that for once, I'm not following you around like a fucking puppy just because you say 'come.' Not this time. Not when /he's/ in the picture."

He thrust an arm angrily into one sleeve.

"You want to go off with him, fine, be my guest. Clearly getting you to see my point of view is a fucking lost cause, so I'm not /even/ going to try. I'm done trying."

"And what was the /point/ of that, anyway?" John added, thrusting a finger again at the bedroom. "Why would you even do that if you didn't want it? What did you /expect/ me to do?"

Sherlock didn't say anything to John. He had nothing to say. He'd been an idiot, thinking that offering sex-something that /neither/ of them /really/ wanted-would fix anything. Perhaps Jim had been wrong. Perhaps John didn't really feel for him that way. Wasn't really in love with him. Well, that /would/ make sex awkward. He assumed so, anyway. It was hard to say for certain when Sherlock was as clueless as he was with the whole subject. Sherlock just shook his head. Nothing to say. He had /nothing/ to say. No-he had one thing to say. He opened his mouth, intending to tell John that it was time for him to go, time for him to get out of his life altogether because, as much as Sherlock didn't want that, it /did/ seem to be the only possible solution right now. He didn't get the chance.

"Well, well, well." The voice was perfectly familiar, the Irish lilt instantly recognisable. "I do believe that you two are the only people capable of having a lover's quarrel without actually being /lovers/."

Sherlock turned his head to look towards the voice; Jim was emerging from the bathroom, wiping a dusting of white powder away from under his nose. It was obvious what it was.

"You two were having such a heyday that you didn't even see me. Or hear me." Jim chuckled and straightened his tie, then his jacket. He was dressed immaculately, as always, and it made Sherlock feel more exposed than he normally did around the criminal, even though he'd put the robe on. "At least," Jim continued, shrugging casually, "I /thought/ you were having a heyday. You're both so /dramatic/." He gestured towards John and Sherlock and sneered a little, contemptuously. "/Clearly/ there's unresolved sexual tension between you. Why not just fuck and get it over with?" Jim huffed a laugh while smirking, and Sherlock looked from him to John. John, who was most certainly not going to enjoy having Jim Moriarty in the house, even though it belonged to the criminal himself.


End file.
